They were standing in front of the porch. Reed came toward them from the stable. Both knew that the last word had been said. Justin Merrick struggled with himself a moment, then held out his hand. He did not want to be a poor loser. “The best of luck, Betty,” he said. Gladness gleamed in the soft eyes through which the eager spirit seemed to yearn to comfort him. “You, too, Justin,” she whispered. CHAPTER XXXV BIRDS OF A FEATHER They sat on opposite sides of a table, the food and dishes not yet cleared away after their supper. A cheap kerosene lamp lit the room insufficiently. The smoke from a ragged wick had entirely blackened one side of the glass chimney. One of the men had cunningly utilized this to throw the face of his companion into the light while his own remained in shadow. His bleached eyes watched the emotions come and go as they registered on the twisted, wolfish countenance of this criminal on the dodge. He was playing on his evil instincts as a musician does upon the strings of a violin. “Me, I said right away, soon as I seen you, ‘This Cig’s no quitter; he’ll go through.’ So I tied up with you. Game, an’ no mollycoddle. Tha’s how I sized you up.” “You got me right, Prowers. I’ll say so.” The little man with the leathery face watched his victim. In the back of his mind a dreadful thought had lodged and become fixed. He would use for his purpose this vain and shallow crook, then blot him out of life before he turned upon him. “Don’t I know it? Cig ain’t roostin’ up here for his health, I says to myself. Not none, by jiminy by jinks. He’s got business.” “Business is right,” agreed the New Yorker. “An’ soon as it’s done, I ain’t stickin’ around dis dump no more. I’m duckin’ for ’Frisco. But get it straight, Prowers. I taken all de chances I’m gonna take alone. See? An’ it’ll cost you two hundred iron men for my share of de job.” “Not that much, Cig. We’ve both got our reasons for wantin’ to pull this off. Clint Reed an’ his foreman ain’t exactly friends of yours. You got yore own account to settle. But I’ll dig up a hundred. That’ll take you to ’Frisco.” Cig looked at his mild vis-à-vis sullenly. This harmless-looking old fellow was his master in villainy, more thorough, more ruthless. There were times when his bleached eyes became ice-coated, when the New Yorker had sensed back of them the crouched threat of the coiled rattlesnake. If he had known what Prowers was thinking now, he would have shuddered. “Some generous guy, youse are,” he sneered. “An’ how do I know youse won’t rap on me--t’row me down when de rubes make de big holler after de job?” The old cattleman was at his suave mildest. No malignity showed in his smile. “I don’t reckon I can give no written guarantee, Cig, but I never sawed off trouble yet on a fellow takin’ the trail with me. Those who have rode with me could tell you that.”