While Scott finished his supper he planned carefully what he would do that evening. It would be no simple matter to locate that meeting place and get near enough to it to see and hear without being detected. At first he thought it would be best to go early and wait for the others, but he did not know exactly where it was to be and he did not know when Jed might get there. If Jed happened to get there before he did and saw him come snooping along he did not know exactly what would happen, but he felt pretty sure that he would not be in at the meeting. No, the safest plan would be to wait till Dawson had gone down the trail and then follow him.
Scott washed the dishes, finished up his diary and reports and straightened up the cabin. He glanced at his watch. It was just nine o’clock. He cast about for something to do, for he did not feel so nervous when he was busy, but he decided that nerves or no nerves the thing for him to do was sit quietly down and try to think of every contingency that might arise.
He pictured the situation as accurately as he could. He planned how he would try to approach them if they were in the open, or in the brush. He thought out just what he would say and do if they discovered him when he was coming down the trail or when he was eavesdropping on the conversation. He became so absorbed in it that he forgot all about his nerves.
He looked at his watch once more. Nine-thirty. Dawson might come along any time now. Suddenly it occurred to him that Dawson might come by the cabin to make sure that he was there. That would make it awkward. It would be very hard to get out of the cabin unnoticed without waiting so long after Dawson left that he might lose him. He decided to leave at once and wait for Dawson at the chute where the two trails met. Then he would be sure to see him whether he came by the cabin or not and it would not be so hard to follow him.
For a moment Scott looked uncertainly at the revolver hanging on the wall. He felt that he might need it to-night, but he had never carried one and he did not like the thing. His father’s coachman, an ex-prize fighter, had given him innumerable boxing lessons and he was not afraid of a fist fight with any man, but he did not like the idea of shooting a man. If he happened to hit a man—the chances of his doing so were not very good—he knew that he would always regret it and would keep wondering if it had really been unavoidable. He decided to leave the revolver.