“Tresler, you take charge of things to-night. Have this door locked. And,” he added, with redoubled earnestness, “are you sure Arizona will hunt that man down?”
“Perfectly.”
Tresler smiled grimly. He fancied he understood the persistence.
There was a moment’s silence. Then the stick tapped, and the rancher passed out under the curious gaze of his men. Tresler, too, looked after him. Nor was there any doubt of his feelings now. He knew that his presence in the house during Marbolt’s murderous assault on Jake was unsuspected. And Marbolt, villainous hypocrite that he was, was covering his tracks. He loathed the blind villain as he never thought to have loathed anybody. And all through his thoughts there was a cold, hard vein of triumph which was utterly foreign to his nature, but which was quite in keeping with his feelings toward the man with whom he was dealing.
As Julian Marbolt passed out the men kept silence, and even when the distant tapping of his stick had died away. Tresler looked round him at these hardy comrades of his with something like delight in his eyes. Joe was not there, which matter gave him satisfaction. The faithful little fellow was at his post to care for Diane. Now he turned to Harris.
“Raw,” he said, “will you ride in for the doctor?”
“He said t’-morrer,” the man objected.
“I know. But if you’d care to do me a favor you’ll ride in and warn the doctor to-night, and then—ride out to Widow Dangley’s and meet us all there, cachéd in the neighborhood.”
The man stared; every man in that room was instantly agog with interest. Something in Tresler’s tone had brought a light to their eyes which he was glad to see.
“What is ’t?” asked Jacob, eagerly.