“What’s your story? I’ll pay you the price,” he cried, with utter contempt.
But the man wanted added assurance.
“Sure?” he cried eagerly. “You’re goin’ to get me with the rest? Savee? You’re goin’ to get me, an’ when you get me, you’re goin’ to give me twenty-four hours’ free run for the border?”
“If I get you you can go free—for twenty-four hours.”
The man’s face lit with a devilish grin of cruelty.
“Good. You’ll shake on it?” He held out his hand.
Fyles shook his hand.
“Guess it’s not necessary. My word goes. You’ve got to take my word, as I’ve got to take yours. Come on. I’ve no more time to waste.”
Pete withdrew his hand. He understood. His venom against the white race was only the further increased.
“Say,” he growled, his eyes lighting with added ferocity. “That cargo is to be run down the river on Monday night about midnight. There’ll be a big rack of hay come in by trail—the river trail—and most of the gang’ll be with it. If you locate it they calculate you’ll get busy unloading to find the liquor. Meanwhile the cargo’ll slip through on the river, in a small boat. Savee? Guess there’ll be jest one feller with that boat, an’—he’ll be the feller that’s—that’s had you red coats skinned a mile all these months an’ years.”