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The turnpike road to that improving seat of the silk manufacture is across one of the highest hills in the district, from the summit of which an extensive view into the "Vale Royal" of Cheshire is had. The hills and valleys in the vicinity of Whaley and Chapel-en-le-Frith are equally delightful. Macclesfield has one matter of attraction its important silk manufactories.
Should she go to Whaley for advice, or act entirely on her own responsibility? She dismissed all efforts at reasoning, she determined to let herself be guided by those impressions which we call "instinct." She could not reason, but she tried to feel. And she felt most decidedly that she would have no counselor but her own heart.
His smile was enigmatic. It carried neither warmth nor conviction. The man had played his cards well. He had let West give her a foretaste of the hell in store for her. Anything rather than that, she thought. And surely Whaley would take her home. He was no outlaw, but a responsible citizen who must go back to Faraway to live.
The level gaze of the police officer studied him speculatively. "Now why this change of heart?" "You get me wrong. I'm with you to a finish in puttin' West and Whaley out of business. They're a hell-raisin' outfit, an' this country'll be well rid of 'em. Only thing is I wanta play my cards above the table. I couldn't spy on these men. Leastways, it didn't look quite square to me.
"I always liked you fine, Tom," the convict pleaded desperately. "Me 'n' you was always good pals. You wouldn't do me dirt thataway now. If you knew the right o' things how that Kelly kep' a-devilin' me, how Whaley was layin' to gun me when he got a chanct, how I stood up for the McRae girl an' protected her against him. Goddlemighty, man, you ain't aimin' to kill me like a wolf!"
The troubles that disturb us the problems of injustice the wrongs of selfishness that arise through such employers as McIver and such employees as Sam Whaley, are our troubles, and we will settle our own difficulties in our own way as loyal American citizens." The self-appointed apostle of the new freedom had by this time regained his self-control.
To Jessie, at this critical moment of her life, even Whaley seemed a God-send. She pushed across the room awkwardly, not waiting to free herself of the webs packed with snow. In the dusky eyes there was a cry for help. "Save me from him!" she cried simply, as a child might have done. "You will, won't you?" The black eyebrows in the cold, white face drew to a line.
She caught sight of Onistah again, his eyes level with the window-sill. He was waiting for instructions. Jessie gave them to him straight and plain. She spoke to Whaley, but for the Blackfoot's ear. "Bring my father here. At once. I want him. Won't you, please?" Whaley's blank poker stare focused on her. "The last word I had from Angus McRae was to keep out of your affairs.
"Why, then, I'll tell you to keep an eye on Whaley. He doesn't love you a whole lot for what you did, and he's liable to do you up first chance he gets." "I'm not lookin' for trouble, but if Whaley wants a fight " "He doesn't not your kind of a fight. His idea will be to have you foul before he strikes. Walk with an eye in the back of your head.
There's an old cabin there Jacques Perritot used to live in. The snow'll blot out our tracks." "You goin' too?" "I'll see you that far," Whaley answered briefly. "Better bring down the dogs from the coulée, then." The gambler looked at him with the cool insolence that characterized him. "When did I hire out as your flunkey, West?" The outlaw's head was thrust forward and down.
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