"What happened to him?"
"Oh, he just nat'ally got kicked out inter the road, an' I reckon he 's a running yet. He was a miserable Yankee runt, an' I did n't hurt the cuss none to speak of. What yer askin' all this fer enyhow," he questioned anxiously, "an' a drawin' that gun on me?"
"It seemed to be the only available method for extracting information. Pardon my insistence, Coombs, but was n't that dead man up there the fellow Neale sent?"
"Not by a damn sight," and I could see the perspiration break out on his forehead. "Why, there wan't none enyhow. That guy skipped out North agin."
"All right; we'll let it go this time. Now one more question and I am done. Under whose orders are you in charge here?"
He was so long in answering, his eyes glaring ugly under heavy brows, that I elevated my weapon, half believing he meditated an attack.
"You 've got to answer, Coombs," I said sternly, "or take the consequences. I 'm in dead earnest."
Suddenly I became aware that his glance was not directly upon me, and I lifted my own eyes to the surface of the tarnished mirror behind where he sat. It reflected the large portrait of the late Judge Henley hanging on the opposite wall, and—by all the gods!—I thought I saw it move, settle back into position! I was upon my feet instantly, swinging aside into a better situation for defense. Perhaps that seeming movement, swift and elusive, might be a figment of imagination, a mere trembling of the glass. But I was taking no chances. The very conception of some hidden peril threatening me from behind awoke the savage in me instantly. Before Coombs could realize what had occurred I had the gun muzzle at the side of his head.
"Now answer," I commanded sharply. "Whose orders put you here?"
He choked, shrinking back helpless in the chair.