N plain sight of me, walking out across the open space toward my house, was a man. He carried a bucket in one hand, and a basket in the other hand. These he set down at the veranda steps, and then turned, scrutinizing the lake and shore. His face showed clearly.
A low word escaped me as I watched. I recognized that face on the instant; he was no other than the enemy of John Balliol, the man whom I had met at McGray's Tavern—the man with the queer name of John Talkso! An instant later he had vanished inside the house.
"Now," I said to myself, "here's one mystery about to be solved in a hurry!"
A moment longer I waited. Talkso appeared again, stooped over the basket he had been carrying, and then went around to the front of my house: what he did there, I could not see. He reappeared, took up both bucket and basket, and went into the house.
I started for the house with the gun under my arm. both barrels loaded.
When I got safely over the gate and into the yard, I knew that I had my man this time; there was going to be an explanation! To judge from his attire when I had seen him at McGray's Tavern, this Talkso had money—and he was going to settle what he owed me, chiefly in the matter of tires. What he was doing in my house was another thing. And if he had fired that bullet at me from the hills—
At that juncture I heard the telephone ringing. The kitchen windows were open, and I stole toward the back entrance. An instant later, I heard a man speaking at the telephone; Talkso was answering the call! His infernal impudence made me chuckle, for at the instrument be must be standing with his back to the door. He was playing directly into my hand!
"He's not here—out fishing." I heard him say. Somebody, obviously, was asking for me. "Who's this? Oh, hello! This you, Sheriff West?"
There was a moment of silence, during which time I gained the hack door and paused. Talkso was standing at the telephone, right enough, entirely unconscious of my presence.
"The hell you say!" he exclaimed suddenly, a snarling intonation in his voice. "None of your cursed business what I'm doing here, Mr. West! What? You come out here if you want to—I'll be gone by then."
Again he paused, and again made angry response to the sheriff.
"Nonsense! You've nothing on me—don't try bluffing me, Mr. West! You can't do it. That shot? Go ahead and tell Desmond all you want! You know damned well you can't prove anything on me, and I know it too! I'll have Desmond out of here inside of a week—oh, I won't eh? Much you know about it!"
With a snarling oath, he slammed the receiver on the hook.
As he did so, I pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. Talkso caught the squeak of the door, and whirled about like a cat.
"I guess the sheriff was right. Talkso," I said cordially, over the sights of my shotgun. "Hoist your hands—thank you; that's the way it's always done in the films. So the sheriff's coming out here, eh? Good thing. He can take you back with him, unless we come to terms."
Talkso stood perfectly motionless, his hands slightly raised. The surprise of my appearance had confounded him; but now passionate rage convulsed his swarthy features, and in the snaky blackness of his eyes flickered a scornful hatred. The contempt expressed in his eyes rendered me uneasy.
"You!" he uttered, flinging the word at me in almost inarticulate fury. "What d' you think you're doing, anyway?"
"I don't think," I assured him. "I'm perfectly confidently about it, my friend. By the way, did you fire a shot at my car the other day, mistaking me for Balliol?"
"I wish to hell the bullet had got you!" he foamed.
"You're a charitable cuss. And since then, you've given me a lot of tire trouble, to say the least. What's the idea, anyhow? What's back of the feud between you and Balliol?"
He seemed to take no notice of the question.
"You poor fool!" he said scornfully. "I could have killed you any time in the past day or two—"
"Well, you didn't." I chipped in. "Come ahead and loosen up! Let's have an explanation!"
To my horror, I realized that he was coming at me: he had the silky, invisible movement of a snake. To blast the life out of him with that shotgun was impossible. He seemed to be leaning forward, leaning toward me, farther and farther—and then he was in the air and on me.
He gripped me and the gun together, and we struggled for it. I was ready enough to drop the gun and slam into him with my fists, but I saw no use in letting him perforate me with my own gun. So I hung on, and we fought it out by arm-power.