"Tha's right." West stopped in his stride. His slow brain stalled. "What d' you reckon I better do? If there's only one or two we might—"
"No," vetoed Whaley. "Nothing like that. Your play is to get out. And keep getting out when they crowd you. No killing."
"Goddlemighty, I'm a wolf, not a rabbit. If they crowd me, I'll sure pump lead," the desperado growled. Then, "D' you mean light out to-night?"
"To-night."
"Where'll I go?"
"Porcupine Creek, I'd say. There's an old cabin there Jacques Perritot used to live in. The snow'll blot out our tracks."
"You goin' too?"
"I'll see you that far," Whaley answered briefly.
"Better bring down the dogs from the coulée, then."
The gambler looked at him with the cool insolence that characterized him. "When did I hire out as your flunkey, West?"