“We’ve got to be rid of those boys before sundown,” he said, reverting to the matter on which he was engaged. “You were right, Larry,” he admitted. “There’s no real scare in them. And they’re using the scare of the others for a play of their own. They’re a tough bunch, and they mean mischief. I’m standing for no crook work here. Despard’s got them tabbed. I figgered on three. But you reckon that new fish, Jack Pike, is on the crook, too. Well, he’ll have to go with ’em.”
Larry laughed quietly.
“It’s good you’ve got it at last, Jim,” he said. “I’ll be tickled to death to see the last of Dago Naudin and Slattery. That Soapy Kid’s worse. And as for Pike—well, I guess the rest, with them clear across the border, will be like handling a Sunday school. I’ve no sort of illusions. They’ll be double blindfold when they go, and I’ll pass them over myself.”
“Maybe I’m losing one or two of my own tame illusions,” Jim said, with a laugh that failed to change the look of anxiety with which he was regarding the two figures on the verandah ahead of them. “But I mean to play the hand out to the last card. I promised those boys to clear up their scare for them, and I must make good. There needs to be no let-down.”
“You mean—McFardell?”
“I certainly do.”
Larry shook his head. His inclination to laugh had gone. He saw the difficulties, which, to his mind, short of murder were insurmountable.
“How?”
His interrogation came with a sharpness that made Jim look round.
“There’s none of those boys who’ve relied on my word are going to find trouble through McFardell,” he said deliberately.