"Ye'll feed the coyotes, sure as—kingdom come. Say they'll jest flay the pelt off yer."
"Git!"
The rascal "got" without further delay or evil prophecy. He knew Horrocks.
When the door closed, and the officer had assured himself of the man's departure, he turned to his host.
"Well?"
"Well?" retorted Lablache.
"What do you make of it?"
"An excellent waste of fifty dollars."
Lablache's face was expressive of indifference mixed with incredulity.
"He told you what you already knew," he pursued, "and drew on his imagination for the rest. I'll swear that Retief has not been seen at the Breed camp for the last fortnight. Moreover, that man was reciting a carefully-thought-out tale. I fancy you have something yet to learn in your business, Horrocks. You have not the gift of reading men."