Jim waited. He wanted the man to talk. The psychology of the crook was a never-failing source of interest to him. The man flung out an arm, and the gesture was comprehensive.
“It kind of leaves me guessing, this,” he declared, and his eyes took in the wide, single-storied house, and passed on to the remotenesses of the valley. “You boys ain’t any religious bunch. You don’t seem the kind of junk them queer folks who run fancy societies are made of. This gent here,” he went on, indicating Larry, who was still standing, “looks the sort that belongs around a prize-ring. I’ve seen a deal worse’n him in a first-class sluggin’ match.” He chuckled in his throat. “I’d surely need all that knife, an’ them guns, if I got up agin’ him.” He shook his bullet head. “No. It beats me. You ain’t askin’ dollars. Only work. An’ you reckon to pay for that right. Well, what then? You got a swell ranch place. I’ve seen it in daylight. I guess it’s a business proposition of sorts.”
“Yes. It’s a sheer business proposition, and needs to pay.”
“Then why in hell get boys on the crook around to run it?”
The man’s question came sharply. Jim smiled up into the furtive eyes.
“That’s our business,” he said. “Your concern is, it’s a safe shelter just when you need one. You’ll be up with the daylight and in your blankets before ten o’clock. And you’ll be well paid for the work you do. You’ll eat good, and just live the way you feel, and, after awhile, the air and work’ll have cleaned out your vitals and made life seem good to you. For the rest, it doesn’t matter to you. There’s Despard waiting behind you. I’ll say good-night.”
Jack Pike glanced over his shoulder and discovered a burly white man standing immediately behind him. He had approached without a sound, and the stranger was unpleasantly startled at the vision. He looked into the man’s face, studying him with suspicion uppermost. But he said no word. Then he turned back to the man at the table, and his eyes were full of unvoiced questioning. He glanced round at the silent vision of the red-headed Larry. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
“So long,” he said curtly. And to the man behind him; “Lead the way, boy. This is the queerest joint I’ve lit on in years. But it don’t matter.”
CHAPTER XV
Brother and Sister
IT was a delightful apartment, lit by carefully-shaded lamps. It was furnished and draped with the inspiration of a cultured woman labouring under the difficulty of remoteness. The walls and ceiling were of polished red pine and the floor was of narrow-cut, polished hardwood. The whole scheme was clearly that of a woman’s boudoir, with the reservation that men-folk would share in its comforts.