“Not exactly. By the way, there’s some coffee on the stove. Help yourself.”
Ballard was puzzled by this cool reception. With a bare nod, he crossed to the stove and poured out some of the bitter black coffee, swallowing it at a gulp. Then he set down the cup, his eyes fastened on the barred door.
“What’s behind that door, Stewart?”
Denis shifted his rifle a trifle.
“Hold your rifle just as it is, Ballard!” he said, his voice biting like a whip. “Cowley is behind that door.”
The settler stiffened. His eyes went to Denis in keen surmise, noted the rifle trained on him, and rested on the eyes of Denis. The two looked at each other steadily, neither wavering. But Ballard did not lift his rifle.
“Look a’ here, Stewart; we’d better have a little talk. I want to know where you stand, and I want to know mighty quick.”
“I’m not standing at present,” and Denis smiled. “I’m sitting on Cowley’s bunk. Meanwhile, you have the floor, and I’m ready to listen. Shoot ahead!”
“I’ll do it,” nodded Ballard, his face hard and inflexible. “You know what we come here for, and why. Mebbe you don’t know what happened at the foot o’ the lake this mornin’, do ye?”
“I do,” assented Denis quietly. “I believe you shot at Cowley.”