“Uh-huh. And the skunk put a bullet into Ed’s shoulder, curse him! Now we aim to life him in a rope necklace, where he belongs, and we don’t aim to be interfered with, none whatever. I hope you get me.”
Denis smiled again—that same deceptive smile.
“I understand you perfectly well, Ballard. You intend to commit murder by hanging Cowley. Cowley may deserve it, of course, but I’d hate to see you four men getting into court on a murder charge.”
Ballard stared at him.
“Out with it, Stewart—what’s your position? You ain’t figgering on playin’ any low-down tricks, are you?”
“Quite the contrary, Ballard. I came here this morning and arrested Smoking Duck, a half-breed. I then arrested Cowley, when he returned from meeting you. The two are in the next room together. Cowley has been making white whisky up here, or what passes for whisky with the Indians, and has been trading it for peltries.”
“Making whisky?” ejaculated Ballard. “You sure?”
“You’d better take a look at what’s left of the still and whisky around in back. As I told you last night, I’m representing my brother, Big Ben. Also, I’m representing the law. That’s exactly where I stand, Ballard.”
The other looked steadily at him.
“There’s four of us, all told, and one o’ you,” he rejoined slowly. “D’you mean to say you’re goin’ to stop us takin’ Cowley?”