don't shoot as straight as Jeff or Larry or Joe. Is that straight?"
"What's leading the gang got to do with righting?" asked Scottie harshly. "And who's got the right to the head of things but me?"
"Ask Allister what fighting had to do with the running of things," said Andrew calmly. The moon was sliding up out of the East; it changed the faces of the men and made them oddly animallike; they stared, fascinated, at Andrew. "There's two reasons why I'm going to run this job, if we stick together. Allister named them once. I can take advice from any one of you; I know what each of you can do; I can plan a job for you; I can lead you clear of the law—and there's not one of you that can bully me or make me give an inch—no, nor all of you together—La Roche! Macdougal! Clune! Rankin!"
It was like a roll call, and at each name a head was jerked up in answer, and two glittering eyes flashed at Andrew—flashed, sparkled, and then became dull. The moonlight had made his pale skin a deadly white, and it was a demoniac face they saw.
The silence was his answer.
"Jeff," he commanded, "take the hill. You'll stand the watch to-night. And look sharp. If Dozier got Allister he's apt to come at us. Step on!"
And Jeff Rankin rose without a word and lumbered to the top of the hill. Larry la Roche suddenly filled his cup with boiling hot coffee, regardless of the heat, regardless of the dirt in the cup. His hand shook when he raised it to his lips.
