The prisoner turned a ghastly visage on Clinch, who ignored him.
"Got my packet, Hal?" he demanded.
Smith poked Leverett with his rifle: "Tune up," he said; "tell Clinch your story."
As a caged rat looks death in the face, his ratty wits working like lightning and every atom of cunning and ferocity alert for attack or escape, so the little, mean eyes of Earl Leverett became fixed on Clinch like two immobile and glassy beats of jet.
"G'wan," said Clinch softly, "spit it out."
"Jake done it," muttered Leverett, thickly.
"Done what?"
"Stole that there packet o' yourn — whatever there was into it."
"Who put him up to it?"
"A fella called Quintana."