There was a good-natured drawl to the voice which had a tendency to hearten the girl. The driver seemed human, sympathetic: perhaps he would respond to questioning. The other merely grunted, and began to unloosen the cover. She leaned forward, and addressed the rounded back of the fellow in front.
"Are you Mr. Moore?"
He wheeled partly about, surprised into acknowledgment.
"Well, I ain't heered the mister part fer some time, but my name's Matt
Moore, though, how the hell did you know it?"
"The other man called you by name—don't you remember? Besides I had heard about you before."
"Well, I'll be damned. Do yer hear that, Joe? Who told yer 'bout me?"
"Mr. Westcott; he mentioned you as being one of the men who attacked him in the hotel office yesterday. He said you were one of Lacy's men. So when I heard your name mentioned to-night I knew in whose hands I had fallen. Was the brute who ordered you about Bill Lacy?"
"I reckon it was, miss," doubtfully. "It don't make no difference, does it, Joe?"
"Not as I kin see," growled the other. "Leastwise, her knowin' thet much. 'Tain't likely to do her no good, whichever way the cat jumps. I reckon I'll have a smoke, Matt; I'm dry as a fish."
"Same here; 'bout an hour till daylight, I reckon, Joe; pass the terbacco after yer light up."