A flicker of a smile, cold and swift, showed beyond the drooping ends of Luke Watt’s mustache, and for an instant a light of amusement and satisfaction glimmered in his eyes.
“I know you pay a whole lot for black fox,” continued Young Dan.
“Black fox!” exclaimed the other. “You got half a dozen black foxes right here with you—I don’t think. Say, Dan, what you been drinkin’?”
“I don’t drink, Mr. Watt—but I trap in a good country for black fox—and I know that you gave Jim Conley a mighty good price for his.”
The storekeeper’s eyes became very hard and keen with eagerness and caution. He squared his elbows on the counter and leaned across toward the youth. So, for several seconds, he stared in silence; and the other returned the stare with an innocent and unwavering gaze.
“What d’ye know about Jim Conley?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Never saw him before this winter, but we’re trapping the same line of country now,” returned Young Dan. “We’re working ’way up past the Prongs.”
“D’ye mean you an’ Jim Conley are pardners?”
“We use the same traps. Guess you might call it a partnership.”
“It wasn’t a first-class skin, that wasn’t, as you know yerself, Dan. It was more patch than black. But if you have another like it I’ll pay the same price, even if I lose money on it—seein’ it’s you.”