“Why?”
The Wolf pitched the stump of his cigarette away, and pulled out his tobacco sack.
“You guessed it was a two-man job—five hundred gallons,” he said quietly.
“An’ you didn’t.”
“No, you put me wise.” The Wolf’s laugh was derisive.
“Guess you need to tell me,” Pideau said sharply. “It’s one thing now, an’ another when your belly eases.”
“Sure!” The Wolf was intent on the cigarette he was rolling. “Talk’s waste. I’m goin’ to make the cache, an’ haul those kegs ready. You’ll make the creek bank under the bluff with the teams, an’ I’ll tote ’em over. That’ll be eight to-morrow night. You best have Pete an’ Kat with the teams. They’re red hot in a scrap. Then you’ll be in one sled, an’ me in the other, an’ we’ll pick up the O’Hagan bunch at the border to hand over, an’ pouch the stuff. O’Hagan’s had word and is crazy for the dope. He’s wanting it bad. Say,” he paused. And the smile in his eyes hardened to a glitter, “when O’Hagan’s yearnin’ he needs watchin’ most. We’ll need a bunch of guns. A whole blamed arsenal. That boy ’ud shoot up his dying mother for the gold in her teeth.”
While the Wolf talked Pideau made no sign. He just listened to his orders without any change of expression. But he was still guessing.
He nodded. Then he suddenly turned an ear. The movement was so apparent that the Wolf gave a final twist to his cigarette and thrust it quickly to his mouth, and searched in the direction of Pideau’s gaze.
“What’s up?” he asked after a moment.