“I’ve a notion to get a peek at the village,” he said. “I’ll call along down at the saloon and hunt Fyles up. Guess I owe him a drink for—finding me.”
At the mention of Fyles’s name a curious look changed the expression of his brother’s regard. A short laugh that had no mirth in it was the prompt reply.
“You can’t buy Fyles a drink in Rocky Springs,” Charlie exclaimed. “Maybe you can buy all the drink you want. But there’s not a saloonkeeper in the Northwest Territories would hand you one for Fyles. This is prohibition territory, and I guess Fyles is hated to death—hereabouts.”
For a moment Bill’s eyes looked absurdly serious.
“I see,” he demurred. “You—hate him—too?”
Charlie nodded.
“For—that?” suggested Bill.
Charlie shrugged. “I certainly have no use for Inspector Fyles,” he declared. “Maybe it’s for his work, maybe it isn’t. It don’t matter either way.”
The manner of Charlie’s reply reminded his brother that his question had been unnecessarily pointed, and he hastened to make amends.