“I guess that’ll be all he will need,” replied Young Dan.
Mr. Wallace nodded and devoured ham and eggs for five minutes or so with undivided attention.
“As for Luke Watt—well, that feller is nigh as strong as he is slippery,” he said, pouring more coffee. “He’s so danged crooked that he had ought to’ve been thrown away with all the corkscrews when the country went dry. Or he’d ought to of moved over into Quebec. He is strong, too—but I reckon we got the goods on him all right, all right. Do you think you could find that revolver of his you threw away?—or do you reckon he’s maybe picked it up himself?”
“I guess I could find it; and I don’t think he has picked it up because his eyes were shut and full of snow when I threw it away,” replied Young Dan. “I was mad, you know, what with his shooting at me and everything; and it was only the deep snow and my mitts that saved him from getting a sight worse than he got.”
“Do you want to arrest him for assault with intent to kill, an’ for sellin’ gin; or do you want to run him out of the country on a pair of cold feet?” asked the deputy-sheriff. “Take your choice, Dan.”
“Neither,” said the youth. “Neither, if we can scare him enough to handle him the way I want to. If we can scare him into keeping the law and doing something for Jim Conley’s wife and kids, I’ll be satisfied.”
“But we got him cold,” said the other. “You’ve done a smart piece of work, Dan Evans. You’ve caught Luke just how I’ve been tryin’ to catch him this six months back. But what’s your idee? What’s this about wantin’ that fat lubber to do something for Conley’s wife an’ kids?”
“They need help. Jim Conley’s no good. The way I figger it is, Luke Watt cheated Conley on the price of that skin. Whatever the skin was, patch or black, we know Conley didn’t get even as much as a third of the right price. And if we can’t prove that the skin belonged to Andy Mace and me, then it was Conley’s rightful property, in the law. So if we can shoot a real scare into Luke Watt—a regular death-cold fright—then we can make him hand over the rest of the price of that skin, in groceries and boots and clothing, to Jim Conley’s family. I’ll pick out the goods—enough to last them till well on in the spring; and Watt’ll have to pay to have them packed in to Conley’s camp. That’s my idea.”
The deputy-sheriff drank more coffee, scratched his chin and relit the half-smoked cigar.
“You’re a philanthropist, Dan Evans,” he said. “You’re like your uncle Bill Tangler in that.”