“You best deal four hands,” he said hastily to his companions. “I’ll be back directly.”
Then he moved away from the table unsteadily, and Peter made a guess at the quantity of bad whiskey he had consumed. He led the way from the tables, and, once clear of them, glanced over his shoulder.
“We best get outside,” he said.
But Will was already regretting his game. The feeling of guilt was passing. It had only been roused by the suddenness of Peter’s announcement. A look of resentment accompanied his reply.
“I ain’t going to miss more than a couple of hands,” he protested.
“Then we best hurry.”
Peter led the way through the crowd, and the two passed out. With the glare and reek of the bar behind them he dropped abreast of Will, and walked him steadily in the direction of his own hut. At first Henderson failed to notice the intention; he was waiting for Peter to speak. He was waiting for the “particular” he had spoken of. Then, as it did not seem to be forthcoming, he promptly rebelled.
“You can tell me right here,” he said, with distinct truculence, and coming to a dead standstill.
Peter reached out, and his powerful hand closed about the other’s upper arm.