“The game’s a pretty bright one,” Pete was saying; and the waiting man ground his teeth as he realized the swagger in the man’s tones, and the grin of triumph on his still scarred features. “Maybe it ain’t a new sort of play, but I guess it ain’t none the worse for that. Y’see, that wagon is kept here right along. It’s allers my work runnin’ it back here, and fetchin’ it along when it’s needed. That’s how I know about things here,” he added, with a jerk of the head in the direction of the hut. “It’s far enough from the village for folks not to know when it’s here or not. Then the feller runnin’ this layout keeps other things here. Y’see, when a job’s on he don’t fancy folks gettin’ to know him. So he keeps an outfit o’ stuff back in the hut there as ’ud hide up a Dago ice-cream seller. Maybe he has other uses for that shack. I ain’t wise. But that hidin’ hole I located dead easy. Guess he figgers it’s a dead secret—but it ain’t.”
Then Fyles’s voice, sharply imperious, carried to the listening man.
“Who is he?” he demanded, turning suddenly upon his companion as they reached the horses.
The grin left the half-breed’s face, and Charlie held his breath.
The half-breed halted. An ironical light possessed his discolored eyes.
“Why, the feller you’re getting to-night—in the boat.”
Fyles eyed his man sternly.
“That’s the second time you’ve answered me in that way. I’m not to be played with. Who is this man?”
A curious truculence grew in the half-breed’s face.
“I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you. Guess you’ll be askin’ me to lay hands on him for you, next. I’ve earned my freedom, and when you get these folks I’ll be square with the game. You can’t bluff me on this game. No, sir. I got the law clear. You can’t touch me for a thing. It’s up to you to get your man. I showed you the way.”