The throat of Andrew was dry. "Did you get a description of young Lanning?" he asked.
"Sure," nodded Scottie. "Twenty-three years old, about five feet ten, black hair and black eyes, good looking, big shoulders, quiet spoken."
Andrew made a gesture and looked carelessly out the back window, but, from the corner of his eyes, he was noting the five men. Not a line of their expressions escaped him. He was seeing, literally, with eyes in the back of his head; and if, by the interchange of one knowing glance, or by a significant silence, even, these fellows had indicated that they remotely guessed his identity, he would have been on his feet like a tiger, gun in hand, and backing for the door. Five thousand dollars! What would not one of these men do for that sum? And yet, money seemed plentiful among them. But five thousand dollars! A man could buy twenty fine horses for that price; he could buy a store and set up in business for that price. A struggling family could lift its mortgage and breathe freely for a smaller sum than that. And of his few friends, what one was there who would shelter him or aid him? What human being in the world would prefer him to five thousand dollars?
All this ran through the brain of Andy in the second in which he turned his head toward the window. He had been keyed to the breaking point before; but his alertness was now trebled, and, like a sensitive barometer, he felt the danger of Larry, the brute strength of Jeff, the cunning of Henry, the grave poise of Joe, to say nothing of Scottie—an unknown force.
But Scottie was running on in his talk; he was telling of how he met the storekeeper in town; he was naming everything he saw; these fellows seemed to hunger for the minutest news of men. They poured forth a chorus
