The woman stared at him, motionless and silent.
“Is Jim round anywheres handy?” he asked. “I’d like to speak to him.”
“It was him sent ye here—that young fool, Dan Evans!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t he mind his own business? Can’t ye let Jim be? He’s workin’ fine now that the gin’s all gone. Can’t ye leave him be?”
“What’s he workin’ at, m’am?”
“Trappin’, that’s what.”
“But whose traps?”
Her face paled. Quick as a flash she reached out an arm, snatched his cased rifle from where it stood and stepped back into the room. Mr. Wallace smiled, raised the pack of provisions from the threshold, carried it into the cabin and closed the door behind him. He crossed the room in four strides and opened another door; and there stood Conley, facing it, with both hands held high in air and a rifle in one hand. Behind him stood Young Dan.
“Come along in,” said the deputy-sheriff.
Conley obeyed; and young Dan came close at his heels and shut the door. Wallace took the rifle from Conley and his own from the woman. Then he turned to Young Dan and said, “You’ve got something to say to these folks, I believe. Fire away.”
“It’s this,” said Young Dan, looking coldly from the man to the woman. “I’m just about sick of supplying you with grub. A wolf would feel more gratitude than either of you. So this is the last time; and if ever I call again with the deputy-sheriff, there’ll be trouble for you. We’ve arrested Luke Watt for selling gin, and he is going to jail for it. Oh, yes, I know all about that fox skin! Stick to yer own trap-lines from now on, Jim Conley, and trade yer furs for food instead of hard liquor, and I’ll leave you alone. But make one more break at me or my traps, and I’ll land you where you can talk it over with Luke Watt. Here’s more grub—the last I bother to tote in to you—and that’s all I’ve got to say. Come along, Mr. Wallace. Let’s get out into the fresh air quick.”