“I am Miss Lee, proprietor of the _Free Press_,” she said. “I know ye,” he said. Surely he was difficult; but for all that, she felt herself drawn to the man. There was a feeling that if she could scale his granite sides and sit upon the shelf of his shoulder she would be safe--that nothing could topple him from the spot where he had taken root. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Whitefield. It is a matter of great importance--almost of life and death,” she said. “Say it,” said Jared Whitefield. “They’re going to appoint Deputy Jenney sheriff,” she said. “Know it.” “It mustn’t be.” “Why?” “Is it safe to speak here. A word overhead----” “This is my yard,” said Jared, and there was much, much more in the words than the mere statement of the fact. It was a declaration of independence. It was a guaranty. It lifted Jared out of the commonplace and made a personage of him--the unquestioned ruler of a principality. Where he was, he ruled. “You know what my paper has done.” “Lighted matches nigh a powder keg.” “I believe, and I hope to prove, there is an organization here for the purpose of wholesale dealing in smuggled liquor. I believe that organization murdered Sheriff Churchill. I believe Jenney is a part of it and that his appointment as sheriff is a move to give the criminals safety in their work. I know there are huge profits. At the top is some man of intelligence who directs. I want to get that man.” “Who?” “I think Sheriff Churchill knew--or guessed. That’s why he is dead.” “Uh!... Wa-al?” “Our only chance is to block Jenney’s appointment. To get first to the Governor with the name of another man--a man whose name and personality carry weight. If we can get the office of sheriff we are halfway to success.” “Will Abner Fownes back the man you pick? Go to the Governor fer ye?” She looked at him briefly, moved a step closer, and lowered her voice. “Abner Fownes,” she said, “is the man I believe to be the chief of the rum runners. I believe he gave the word to kill Sheriff Churchill.” Whitefield moved for the first time. He ran a hand through his beard and drew a breath like a sigh. “Life insured?” he asked. “You will be my life insurance.” She took him by surprise; his features actually changed for an instant. “Me?” he said. “When you are sheriff,” she said. “I’m fifty. By mindin’ my business I got twenty-odd year to live.” “He was your friend,” she said. There was a long silence while she watched his face, and he, looking over the top of her head, stared at the field and woodland stretching to the horizon. “He was my friend,” said Jared Whitefield. “Then you will?” “Can’t be done. Fownes has the say.” “I think it can be done. Will you let me try?” He considered in his ponderous way. Then he turned without a word and walked away. He proceeded half a dozen steps and then halted. “Yes,” he said, over his shoulder, and continued on his way. CHAPTER XVII