“You seem to know a heap about him,” was the significant retort.
“Take care, York.”
“I’m not Hardman, cap. I say what I think.
“And you think?” suggested Leroy gently.
“I don’t know what to think yet. You’re either a fool or a traitor. I ain’t quite made up my mind. When I find out you’ll ce’tainly hear from me straight. Come on, boys.” And Neil vanished through the door.
An hour later there came a knock at Leroy’s door. Neil answered his permission to enter, followed by the other trio of flushed beauties. To the outlaw chief it was at once apparent with what Dutch courage they had been fortifying themselves to some resolve. It was characteristic of him, though he knew on how precarious a thread his life was hanging, that disgust at the foul breaths with which they were polluting the atmosphere was his first dominant emotion.
“I wish, Lieutenant Chaves, next time you emigrate you’d bring another brand of poison out to the boys. I can’t go this stuff. Just remember that, will you?”
The outlaw chief’s hard eye ran over the rebels and read them like a primer. They had come to depose him certainly, to kill him perhaps. Though this last he doubted. It wouldn’t be like Neil to plan his murder, and it wouldn’t be like the others to give him warning and meet him in the open. Warily he stood behind the table, watching their awkward embarrassment with easy assurance. Carefully he placed face downward on the table the Villon he had been reading, but he did it without lifting his eyes from them.
“You have business with me, I presume.”
“That’s what we have,” cried Reilly valiantly, from the rear.