"I can trust
Ignacio Chavez; I can trust Julius Struve. And, if you want it in
words of one syllable, I cannot trust Caleb Patten!"
"Hm," said Engle. "I think you're mistaken there, my boy."
"Maybe," returned Norton. "But I can't afford right now to take any
unnecessary chances. Further," and in the gloom they saw his shoulders
lifted in a shrug, "I am trusting Miss Page because I've got to! Which
may not sound pretty, but which is the truth."
"Of course I'll do what you ask," Engle said. "Is there anything else?"
"No. Just go on with Miss Page to see Ignacio. He will pretend to be
doubled up with pain and will tell his story of the tinned meat he ate
for supper. Then you can see her to the hotel and go back home,
sending the horse over right away. Then she will ride with me to see a
man who is hurt . . . or she will not, and I'll have to take a chance
on Patten."
"Who is it?" demanded Engle sharply.
"It's Brocky Lane," returned Norton, and again his voice told of rigid
muscles and hard eyes. "He's hurt bad, John. And, if we're to do him
any good we'd better be about it."
Engle said nothing. But the slow, deep breath he drew into his lungs
could not have been more eloquent of his emotion had it been expelled
in a curse.
"I'll slip around the back way to the hotel," said Norton.
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