“Mr. Jason warned me to be very careful, as it was a despatch he could not trust to the mail.”
Fyles gave a short laugh.
“That’ll do. Now, get mounted, and ride back the way you came into the valley. When you get out of it keep along the edge of it westwards. You’ll come to our camp five miles out. It’s in a bluff. It’s a shack on an abandoned farm. I can’t direct you better, except it’s just under the shoulder in the valley, and is approached by a cattle track. You’ll have to ride around till you locate it. McBain will be coming back soon. Maybe he’ll pick you up. Avoid questions, and still more—answers. Keep the letter till McBain gets in.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man remounted and rode away. His coming had been so sudden, his stay so brief, and his departure so rapid, that Fyles had achieved something of his purpose in repairing any damage Superintendent Jason had done to his plans in acting contrary to his subordinate’s wishes.
The sharp-eyed villagers had witnessed the interview with suspicions lulled. There had been no despatch delivered, and the man was off again the way he had come. Surely nothing very significant had taken place. Possibly, after all, the man was merely a patrol from some outlying station.
Fyles turned to his lieutenant.
“We’re going to get busy,” he said, with a shadowy smile.
The older man could not conceal his appreciation.
“Looks that way, sir.”