I'll give you a month's pay for the night's work if you nail him
with the goods on."
Clicking up the receiver he went out on the street again, giving no
heed to the many glances which followed him. They knew who he was;
they were speculating on him. "Ol' man Packard's gran'son," he heard
one man say.
In the thick darkness lying under the poplar tree it was several
minutes before he was certain that his horse was gone. He had tethered
the animal himself; there was no dangling bit of rope to indicate a
broken tie-rope. Blenham, the practical, had simply taken thought of
detail.
"Not missing a single bet, is Blenham," he thought savagely.
He swung about and reentered the saloon. A buzz of talk up and down
the long room promptly died away as again the eyes of many men
travelled his way. It struck him that they had all been talking of
him; he knew that they must have marked those signs which Joe Woods's
fists had left on his face; he stood a moment looking in on them,
conscious for the first time of his rapidly swelling right eye, seeking
to estimate what these men made of him.
It seemed to him that the one emotion he glimpsed on all hands and in
varying degrees, was distrust. Little cause for surprise there: he was
a Packard and this was not the Packard side of Red Creek.
"Somebody's put me on foot," he announced crisply. "I left my horse
outside, tied.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109