The girl flashed around at him. Her pony stirred eager for movement to escape the cold. She checked him savagely.
“Yes, I tell you,” she cried, her eyes flaming in the moonlight. “The Wolf did it. It’s out ther’.” She pointed with an arm outflung to the westward. “Right on Spruce Coulee wher’ the hills quit. He brews the liquor in a cave. It’s all hid up. Sinclair’s ther’. He’s stone dead an’ froze solid. The Wolf tricked him ther’, an’ shot him to death. An’ he’ll stop right ther’ till the spring thaw. Then the Wolf’ll bury him. He’ll fix it so ther’ ain’t any tracks. He’s ther’ I tell you—dead. I know. An’ I ken show you.”
Fyles nodded.
“Sure.”
“Right away—it’ll have to be right away. To-morrow night.”
“Yes—to-morrow night.”
Fyles peered out at the woods where Buffalo Coulee lay. A queer sense of unreality was taking possession of him.
“Where’s the Wolf now?” he asked.
“Back to home.”
“Can you make a getaway without——?”