“Guess I’d sooner be a whisky-running sharp than be a crook with Fyles on my trail,” he added as an afterthought.
“An’ he’s after the sharps most now,” suggested Holy Dick, with a contemplative eye on Charlie.
A laugh came from the poker table. Holy Dick glanced round as a harsh voice commented——
“Feelin’ glad, ain’t you, Holy?” it said.
Holy Dick spat.
“I’d feel gladder, Pete Clancy, if I could put him wise to some o’ the whisky sharps,” said the old man vindictively. “Maybe it would sheer him off Rocky Springs.”
The man’s eyes were snapping for all the mildness of his words.
O’Brien replied before Pete could summon his angry retort.
“There’s a good many sharps in the game in this town, and I don’t guess it would be a gay day for the feller that put any of ’em away. Not that I think anybody could, by reason of the feller that runs the gang. Look at that train ‘hold-up’ at White Point. Was there ever such a bright play? I tell you, whoever runs that gang is a wise guy. He’s ten points flyer than Master Stanley Fyles. Say, Fyles was waiting for that cargo at Amberley, and here are you boys, drinking some of it right here, and with him around the town, too. Say, the boss of that gang is a bright boy.”