“Wot fer?”
For once the man-hunter hesitated. A quite unaccountable feeling gave him a moment’s pause. But he finally answered frankly, as he always answered, with a simple directness that was just part of him.
“He’s stole my wife,” he said, his eyes directly gazing into the other’s face.
“Gee, he’s a low-down skunk,” declared the other, with a curse. But the ironical light in his eyes quite escaped his companion’s understanding.
Scipio was full of his good fortune in falling in with a man who knew of James’ whereabouts. A dozen questions sprang into his mind, but he contented himself with stating his intention.
“I’ll ride on with you,” he said.
“What, right up to James’ lay-out?”
“Sure. That’s wher’ I’m makin’.”
For a moment the man calling himself Conroy sat gazing out at the afterglow of the setting sun. His whole appearance was ill-favored enough to have aroused distrust in anybody but a man like Scipio. Now he seemed to be pondering a somewhat vexed question, and his brows were drawn together in a way that suggested anything but a clear purpose. But finally he seemed to make up his mind to a definite course. He spoke without turning to his companion, and perhaps it was for the purpose of hiding a lurking derisive smile.
“If you’re set on makin’ James’ shanty, you best come right along. Only”––he hesitated for the barest fraction of a second––“y’see, I’m out after this cattle racket, an’ I guess I owe it to my folks to git their bizness thro’ without no chance of upset. See?”