Their eyes met and fought. The shallow, protuberant ones wavered. "Oh, well, it ain't worth chewin' the rag over. I reckon I'll go with you."
He stepped into the cab. At sight of Olson he showed both dismay and surprise. He had heard of the threats the Dry Valley man had been making. Was he starting on a journey the end of which would be summary vengeance? A glance at Lane's face reassured him. This young fellow would be no accomplice at murder. Yet the chill at his heart told him he was in for serious trouble.
He tried to placate Olson with a smile and made a motion to offer his hand. The Scandinavian glared at him.
The taxicab swung down Fourteenth, across the viaduct to Lake Place, and from it to Federal Boulevard.
Hull moistened his lips with his tongue and broke the silence. "Where we goin'?" he asked at last.
"Where we can talk without bein' overheard," Kirby answered.
The cab ran up the steep slope to Inspiration Point and stopped there.
The men got out.
"Come back for us in half an hour," the cattleman told the driver.
In front and below them lay the beautiful valley of Clear Creek.
Beyond it were the foothills, and back of them the line of the Front
Range stretching from Pike's Peak at the south up to the Wyoming line.
Grey's and Long's and Mount Evans stood out like giant sentinels in the
clear sunshine.
Hull looked across the valley nervously and brought his eyes back with a jerk. "Well, what's it all about? Whadjawant?"