Yer hoss is tied in th' bresh
down th' road a piece. Ride easy fer th' first mile."
Jim rose slowly to his feet, and stretching his arms above his head,
yawned noisily. "Guess I'll turn in," he said. And then as he passed
Simpson, he put a roll of bills into his hand. The landlord stepped
out on the porch and took the chair Whitley had just left, while that
gentleman slipped quietly out by the back door and crept away to his
horse.
An hour later, Whitley knocked at the door of the cabin on the river
bank and was admitted by Jake.
"Did ye make hit all right?" the mountaineer asked, as Jim entered.
The other nodded. "Simpson is sitting on the front porch and I'm
supposed to be in bed."
Jake chuckled. "Cap an' th' boys air way up th' holler after Bill
Davis, an' I'm in the bresh er watchin' you. Now let's git down ter
biz right sharp."
Whitley soon told enough of his story, omitting names and places, to
let his companion understand the situation.
When he had finished, Jake took a long pull from a bottle, and then
said slowly: "An' ye want me ter put that feller what holds th' papers
out o' yer' way?"
Whitley nodded. "It'll pay you a lot better than shooting government
agents, and not half the risk."
"What'll ye give me?"
"You can name your own price?"
The outlaw's face glittered and he answered in a hoarse whisper, "I'll
do hit. What's his name, an' whar'll I find him?"
"Richard Falkner. He lives in Boyd City--"
Slowly the man who had just agreed to commit a murder for money rose
to his feet and stepped backward until half the width of the room was
between them.
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