He was still weak from his wound, but recovering as fast as might be expected. He could, at least, manage for himself, and he had a competent little motorboat which would enable him to make such a journey as he determined upon. He ran in to the bank, against the Ridge, where shantyboats tied in, and soon he met a man he knew—one Dolman, who was familiar with river gossip.
In five minutes he had learned that a man of the name of Murdong had purchased a 30-30 carbine rifle and four hundred shells, both hard and soft nose.
"They was talking funny about hit up to the gun store," Dolman declared. "Nuther funny thing, he carried away two sheets of boiler iron, off'n the Melgrit junk yard."
"What'd he take them for?" Gost asked.
"Lawse! I don't know, if 'twan't so's he couldn't git shot up. That's what whisky boaters does—line their cabins an' pilot houses with steel plates. But he didn't get to buy no whisky or liquor, not as I seen."
Gost made no comment. He went uptown to the gun store, and he soon learned the truth of the rumour. Murdong had bought a big supply of ammunition—enough to stock a soldier in the trenches. Gost, himself, then bought a high-power rifle and three boxes of cartridges.
"I 'low I'll lay off an' kill some wild geese down
