Part 18 (1/2)

Had the big man's wide, blue eyes been less ready to accept all they beheld, had his mind been more versed in the study of human nature, and those shadowy, inexpressible feelings glancing furtively out of eyes intended only to express carefully controlled thoughts, then Bill must have detected reluctance in his brother. There were moments, too, when only a half-heartedness found vent in the man's verbal acceptance of his brother's proposals, which should have been significant, and certainly invited investigation.

But even if he observed these things Bill undoubtedly misread them. He had no reason to doubt that his presence, and all his enthusiastic plans were welcome, and so he was left blinded to any other feelings on the part of his brother than those which he verbally expressed.

That Charlie delighted in his presence there could be no doubt, but as to those other things, well, a close observer might well have been forgiven had he felt sorry for the bigger man's single-minded generosity. To the end Bill felt confident, and remained quite undisturbed.

There were still fully two hours of daylight left when Charlie finally rose from his seat upon the veranda.

He smiled down at the big figure of the brother he so affectionately regarded.

”We'll need to set about getting your baggage sent through from Moosemin to-morrow,” he said. Then he added with a quizzical gleam in his eyes: ”Guess you've got the checks all right?”

Bill nodded with profound gravity, and dived into one of his pockets.

”Sure,” he replied, dragging forth a bunch of metal discs on a strap.

”Five pieces.”

”Good.” Charlie nodded. His brother's unconsciousness amused him.

Then, after a moment, his gaze drifted across the valley, and came to rest on the little home of the Setons, and he went on reflectively, ”I need to get around a piece before dark,” he said. Then with an unmistakable question in his dark eyes: ”Maybe you'll fancy a walk around--meantime?”

Bill's eyes lit good humoredly.

”Which means I'm not wanted,” he said with a laugh.

Then he, too, rose. He stretched himself like some great contented dog.

”I've a notion to get a peek at the village,” he said. ”I'll call along down at the saloon and hunt Fyles up. Guess I owe him a drink for--finding me.”

At the mention of Fyles's name a curious look changed the expression of his brother's regard. A short laugh that had no mirth in it was the prompt reply.

”You can't buy Fyles a drink in Rocky Springs,” Charlie exclaimed.

”Maybe you can buy all the drink _you_ want. But there's not a saloonkeeper in the Northwest Territories would hand you one for Fyles. This is prohibition territory, and I guess Fyles is hated to death--hereabouts.”

For a moment Bill's eyes looked absurdly serious.

”I see,” he demurred. ”You--hate him--too?”

Charlie nodded.

”For--that?” suggested Bill.

Charlie shrugged. ”I certainly have no use for Inspector Fyles,” he declared. ”Maybe it's for his work, maybe it isn't. It don't matter either way.”

The manner of Charlie's reply reminded his brother that his question had been unnecessarily pointed, and he hastened to make amends.

”I'm kind of sorry, Charlie,” he said, his face flus.h.i.+ng with contrition. ”I didn't think. You see, I hadn't----”

But the other waved his regret aside.