“If I hand you feed and loan you a broncho, can you make a clear getaway without involving me with the Police?”
“D’you mean that?”
The smile in the convict’s eyes was radiant.
Marton still gave no sign of any feeling. He smoked on heavily, his eyes coldly expressionless.
“I don’t say things without meaning ’em, I guess,” he said, in the same even tone, which never seemed to vary very much. “Ther’s just two things I can do. One’s hold you right here till the Police get around and relieve me of you. The other’s to help you beat it to a place of safety—that ain’t the penitentiary. Anyway, I’ve a hunch for the man who can kill his wife’s seducer, and for those that helped him.”
The man at the stove drew a deep breath. His condition was utterly forgotten. The thought of all that might still lie ahead of him when he again set out on the winter trail gave him not a tremor of disquiet. He was thinking only of the heavily built creature smoking his pipe against the table, and wondering. The sphinx-like face was impossible to read.
After a few silent moments he stirred.
“Won’t you hand me your name?” he asked almost diffidently.
“Sure. George Marton. Do you feel like talking?”