“Ther’s less chance trailin’ me—now,” he said sharply.
“An’ less chance getting cattle,” the Wolf retorted. “You’re safe—dead safe—if you quit cattle right away.”
“I was reckonin’ to—soon,” Pideau admitted, his gaze wandering southwards in the direction of the United States border.
“Well, it’s got to be right away, if you aren’t yearnin’ for penitentiary an’ a hangin’. We best git farther back into the hills for awhile. The police search is dead sure to come. It won’t be good if chance should show ’em our outfit. So it’s best not killin’ me, Pideau, as you were reckonin’. You’ll need me farther up in the hills. We got to trap, an’ hunt pelts to get our food. Then later——”
The fear and hate in Pideau had receded still further. A grin lit his fierce eyes as he interrupted.
“The Yanks are goin’ dry,” he said, meaningly, with a swift reaction to the needs of the new position. “Last time I was across I heard tell. The border folk are gettin’ busy. They figger it’ll not be for a year or so yet, but when they do——”
“When they do?”
The Wolf was frankly intrigued.
“Why, liquor’ll fetch all sorts of dollars.”
The boy was gazing out ahead over the familiar scene of the valley. His eyes were thoughtful.