The lumberman chuckled, but held up a warning hand.
"They're going to take me prisoner," he said. Then he added grimly, "There's going to be a warm time to-night."
But the churchman was not listening. Again his thought had reverted to the presence of Jim Truscott at that meeting.
"What on earth is young Truscott doing in there?" he asked. "He went away east the night I set out for these hills. What's he got to do with that—that rascally agitator? Why—he must be one of the—leaders of this thing. It's—it's most puzzling!"
Chepstow's puzzlement did not communicate itself to Mason. The camp "boss" was less interested in the identity of these people than in the strike itself. It was his work to see that so much lumber was sent down the river every day. That was his responsibility. Dave looked to him. And he was face to face with a situation which threatened the complete annihilation of all his employer's schemes. A strike effectually carried out might be prolonged indefinitely, and then—
"Look here, parson," he said coolly, "I want you to stay right here for a minute or so. They aren't likely to be finished for a while inside there. I want to 'prospect.' I want to find that buckboard. That damned agitator—'scuse the language—must have come up in it, so I guess it's near handy. The fog's good and thick, so there's not a heap of chance of anybody locating us, still——" he paused and glanced into the churchman's alert eyes. "Have a look to your gun," he went on with a quiet smile, "and—well, you are a parson, but if anybody comes along and attempts to molest you I'd use it if I were in your place."
Chepstow made no reply, but there was something in his look that satisfied the other.
Mason hurried away and the parson, left alone, leant against the wall, prepared to wait for his return. In spite of the plot he had listened to, the presence of Jim Truscott in that room occupied most of his thoughts. It was most perplexing. He tried every channel of supposition and argument, but none gave him any satisfactory explanation. One thing alone impressed its importance on his mind. That was the necessity of conveying a warning to Dave. But he remembered they—these conspirators—had cut communications. Mason and probably he were to be made prisoners.
His ire roused. He blazed into a sudden fury. These rascals were to make them prisoners. Almost unconsciously he drew his gun from his pocket and turned to the window. As he did so the sound of approaching footsteps set him alert and defensive. He swung his back to the wall again, and, gun in hand, stood ready. The next moment he hurriedly returned the weapon to his pocket, but not before Mason had seen the attitude and the fighting expression of his face, and it set him smiling.
"I've found the buckboard," he said in a whisper. Then he paused and looked straight into the churchman's eyes. "We're up against it," he went on. "Maybe you as well as myself. You can't tell where these fellows'll draw the line. And there's Miss Betty to think of, too. Are you ready to buck? Are you game? You're a parson, I know, and these things——"