“And he roams this country at large, unchecked, unopposed. Working his will whithersoever he fancies, unseen, unknown but for his sobriquet. And you claim he and Anton are one. This great man—for in his way he is great, head and shoulders above all other criminals, by reason of the extent of his exploits. Pshaw!”—his tone was scoffing—“let me tell you, on three different nights when this monster was abroad, carrying destruction in his path, Anton was driving me. Or, at least, was with me, having driven me into Forks on one occasion, and twice in the neighborhood of Whitewater. No, I am aware that Anton is a black-leg, or has been one, but he has served me well and truly since he has been my servant. As for the saddle-marks,” he leaned back in his chair and his gentle smile returned slowly to his face. “No, no, Tresler, that is insufficient. Remember, Anton is a Breed, a young man, and, as Breeds go, good-looking. There is a Breed camp in the neighborhood where they indulge in all the puskies and orgies native to them. We must question him. I expect he has taken French leave with my horses.”
“But you forget the Breed camp has gone,” put in Jake quickly. “Since the comin’ of the sheriff and his men to Forks they’ve cleared out, and, as yet, we ain’t located ’em. I expect it’s the hills.”
“Just so, Jake,” replied Marbolt, turning to the foreman coldly. “I forgot that you told me of it before. But that makes little difference. I have no doubt Anton knows where they are. Now,” he went on, turning again to Tresler, “I hold no brief for Anton in particular. If I thought for a moment it were so,” a sudden storm of vindictiveness leapt into his tone, “I would hound him down, and be near while they hung him slowly to death on one of our own trees. I would willingly stand by while he was put to the worst possible tortures, and revel in his cries of agony. Don’t mistake me. If you could prove Anton to be the rascal, he should die, whatever the consequences. We would wait for no law. But you are all on the wrong trail, I feel sure.”
He had dropped back into his old soft-spoken manner, and Tresler felt like hating him for the vileness of the nature he displayed.
“You plead well for Anton, Mr. Marbolt,” he could not help saying, “but after what I heard last night, I cannot believe he is not in league with these people.”
It was an unfortunate remark, and brought the biting answer that might have been expected.
“I plead for no man, Tresler. Most certainly not for a Breed. I show you where you are wrong. Your inexperience is lamentable, but you cannot help it.” He paused, but went on again almost at once. “Since I cannot persuade you, go with your story to the sheriff. Let him judge of your evidence, and if a man of Fyles’s undoubted skill and shrewdness acts upon it, I’ll pay you one hundred dollars.”
Tresler saw the force of the other’s reply, but resented the tone, while he still remained utterly unconvinced of Anton’s innocence. Perhaps the blind man realized his unnecessary harshness, for he quickly veered round again to his low-voiced benignity. And Jake, interested but silent, sat watching his master with an inscrutable look in his bold eyes and a half smile on his hard face.
“No, Tresler,” he said, “we can set all that part of it on one side. You did quite right to come to me, though,” he added hastily; “I thank you heartily. From past experience we have learned that your apparition means mischief. It means that a raiding expedition is afoot. Maybe it was committed last night. I suppose,” turning to Jake, “you have not heard?”