Gibbs' eyes grew more intent. What was this thing? Cranston's tone, instead of commanding, was almost pleading. But the leader caught himself at once.
"I don't see why I need to explain any of that to you. What I want to know is this: why you didn't shoot and get those papers away from him?"
For an instant their eyes battled. But Gibbs had never the strength of his leader. If he had, it would have been asserted long since. He sucked in his breath, and his gaze fell away. It rested on Cranston's rifle, that in some manner had been pulled up across his knees. And at once he was cowed. He was never so fast with a gun as Cranston.
"Blood on my hands, eh--same as on yours?" he mumbled, looking down. "What do you think I want, a rope around my neck? These hills are big, but the arm of the law has reached up before, and it might again. You might as well know first as last I'm not goin' to do any killin's to cover up your murders."
"That comes of not going myself. You fool--if he gets that evidence down to the courts, you're broken the same as me."
"But I wouldn't get more'n a year or so, at most--and that's a heap different from the gallows. I did aim at him--"
"But you just lacked the guts to pull the trigger!"
"I did, and I ain't ashamed of it. But besides--the snows are here now, and he won't be able to even get word down to the valleys in six months. If you want him killed so bad, do it yourself."
This was a thought indeed. On the other hand, another murder might not be necessary. Months would pass before the road would be opened, and in the meantime Cranston could have a thousand chances to steal back the accusing letters. Perhaps they would be guarded closely at first, but by the late winter months they would be an old story, and a single raid on the house might turn the trick. He didn't believe for an instant that the man Gibbs had seen a detective. He had kept too close watch over the roads for that.
"A tall chap, in outing clothes--dark-haired and clean-shaven?"
"I know him--and I wish you'd punctured him. Why, you could've taken those papers away from him and slapped his face, and he wouldn't have put up his arms. And now he'll hide 'em somewhere--afraid to carry 'em for fear he meets me. That's Failing--the tenderfoot that's been staying at Lennox's. He's a lunger."