“You aren't going to storm the house?”
“Yes, sir, that's just what I'm going to do.”
“Have you thought it over? He 'll shoot you know.”
“There are two ways of leaving this world, Dick, that I know of. One way is to catch your death of rheumatism and go off slow; the other is to let a man who can handle a revolver make a neat, clean job of it. I don't know how you feel about it, but I prefer the neat way. Now you wait here while I—”
“Hold on, Bill. Here we have him nicely penned and our plan of siege all settled, when you up and change your tactics. I don't see the use of putting yourself up for a target when we have him sure the other way.”
“That's all right, Dick.”
“Here's another thing. Wilson's out of the running—suppose he puts you out too. What are Pink and I going to do? We have no authority to arrest the man. I'm not even sure that it would be to our interest to try it in such a case. Why not wait—just settle down to it. We can get something to eat from Van Deelen. Say, didn't you tell him to follow us with the wagon last night?”
Beveridge indulged in a dry smile. “Yes, I did. But I didn't more than half think he'd do it. You do as I tell you, Dick, and—”
“Well, if your mind's made up, I suppose—”
Beveridge's mind was made up. He set out without further words, and Dick watched him, uncertain of his movements, until he saw that he was circling around in the direction of the stump fence and Pink. Dick's thoughts were unsettled. Such actions were foolhardy, now that it was nearly broad daylight. It would have been no trick at all to put a few balls into the body below the waving weeds that marked the progress of the special agent. For some reason, however, the shots did not come.