But the man who had been called Julian Caspar made no attempt to obey. He stirred where he sat, but that was all. McLagan was watching. He was watching with every faculty alert. He was looking to read behind that baffling mask which was his victim’s greatest asset.
It was that slight shift of position that betrayed. It was an unconscious movement impelled by some inner qualm, a qualm similar to that which had assailed him when he had thought of the wreck at the mouth of the Alsek River. And a feeling of satisfaction warmed McLagan as he waited for the reply he saw coming.
The man spoke harshly, but without any sign of the fury that was driving him. He had himself under a control that rarely enough gave way, and was strongest in emergency.
“You’re talking a whole lot, McLagan,” he said, “but you’re not talking the way of a feller who’s dead sure of the thing he’s putting on the other feller.” He shook his head. “Try again. Maybe that way you’ll make me feel like the boy you’re reckoning to make me believe I am. A hold-up’s generally got more behind it than seems. You see you’re not a sheriff, or a law officer. You’re just an oil man. I haven’t seen a sign of any warrant for my arrest. Do you get me?”
McLagan smiled at the shrewd retort. He was more than prepared for it. He signed to Len Stern, while his gun was raised ever so slightly covering his man.
“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “I’m not worrying for details. You can think the thing you please. We won’t waste time in discussion. Just fix those bracelets right on his wrists, Len, and then go fix his ponies ready for the start. No, Caspar. Don’t move. Not a move. As sure as God I’ll fix you right here. And I’ll fix you better than the mess you made of things down at my home place. I told you then you’ll hang, and that’s sure why I’m here now. That’s it, Len,” he went on, as the irons were clipped on the man’s wrists. “Now go and see to his plugs while I look to him.”
The two men remained watching each other in silence after Len Stern had passed out of the shack. It seemed as if a tremendous silent conflict of will was raging. The hard face of Julian Caspar was apparently unyielding under the hate that no power of his seemed able to abate. The eyes of the other were harshly compelling, and kept the queer dead eyes of his victim unblinkingly observing him. McLagan’s decision was clear in his mind. It was impossible to judge of the thing passing in the mind of the other as he sat with his shackled hands resting on his drawn-up knees.
At last the prisoner shook his head.
“You’re needing something, McLagan,” he said, his face slightly relaxing. “Maybe I can guess the thing it is. Well, if you’re ready to hand out the price I’ll sell what you need.”
McLagan drew a deep breath. Quite suddenly a curious feeling of admiration stirred within him. The man’s words and manner inspired him with a sense of his own inferiority. His shrewdness and nerve amazed him. He felt he had been read like an open book. He failed utterly to realise that this man was fighting for something he treasured above all else—his life. And knew full well that it was forfeit unless his wit should adequately serve him.