“Why for don’t Spur go an’ talk personal with this Boston Jack?” Allen asked.
“He done it just after ol’ man Reed was downed, but didn’t find nothin’ a-tall. Boston just laughed at him – but one of his riders gets hot under the collar an’ talks war to Sandy McGill, who drops him pronto. Just the same, I’m plumb curious an’ I figger on amblin’ some night into the Hard Pan an’ havin’ a look. Spur puts them gunmen of hisn over that way – but I don’t trust them gents none a-tall!”
“Spur gets ’em after the old man is downed?” Allen asked.
“Naw, the old man gets ’em up from the border a couple of weeks afore he stops lead. Funny how he was wanderin’ about by hisself when he runs into them rustlers what downed him. Yep, it’s sure funny, ’cause I hears he hires them McGills as personal bodyguards. It would ’a’ been positively ludicrous if Spur hadn’t been there,” Shorty said reflectively.
“What yuh mean – Spur bein’ there?” Allen encouraged.
“’Cause I don’t trust them McGills a-tall. But Spur is white an’ ain’t the sort to have no truck with rustlers. Then, besides, he’s got money. An’ ain’t he goin’ to marry Dot Reed? So he ain’t goin’ to steal what will be hisn some day,” Shorty explained, as he deftly rolled a cigarette.
Their horses slid into a deep wash floored with boulders. After they had picked their way across and climbed the opposite bank, Allen started to ply Shorty with questions again.
“I hears Dot was goin’ to marry this Slivers person?” he said.
“Yeh, mebbe she was, but Slivers is wanted bad for two murders, among which is her old man, so I reckon she forgot him.”
“Mebbe she don’t believe he’s guilty,” Allen volunteered.
“Mebbe so. I sorta liked Slivers myself an’ never figgered him the sort of gent what would dry-gulch a man. Yeh, there’s somethin’ sorta funny about that too an’ I’m a-gettin’ plumb curious.”
Allen decided that Shorty was altogether too talkative for a man who had such a broad, curious streak. Under the present circumstances to have either was dangerous, but to have both was suicidal.
CHAPTER XXI
CONFERENCE WITH SLIVERS
He rode with Shorty a short distance farther and then announced that his gray had gone lame and that he intended to return to the ranch. Shorty gave a few brief directions as to the trail back to the ranch and then rode on alone. Allen waited until the glow of Shorty’s cigarette had faded in the faint light from the moon and then swung Princess about and headed across the plain almost due north to where he had left Slivers earlier that day. He put his horse into a long, space-devouring lope and headed straight toward the tall, wooded mountain that stood out against the starlit sky.
As he rode on and on, he tried to piece together the bits of information he had gathered. From Shorty’s talk he knew that if Spur were guilty, it was going to be hard to trap him, for Spur had covered his tracks well.
The stars told him it was past midnight when he started to climb the knoll on which Slivers had his camp. He dismounted and cautiously made his way upward on foot. Once, twice, three times he gave the wolf call. This was the agreed signal. A few seconds later, he heard Slivers answer.
“’Lo, kid,” Allen said, when he at last stood beside his friend. “How about some java?”
“How are things? What did yuh find out? Did yuh see her?” Slivers eagerly fired out his questions as he made a small fire and put the coffeepot on to boil.
“I’ll give yuh the best first. The girl is fine an’ still thinkin’ of yuh plenty. But the rest is plumb rotten bad. John Reed is dead an – ”
“John Reed dead?” Slivers cried in dismay.
“Yeh. Now, yuh hold tight while I tell yuh about it. He was downed by a couple rustlers that he caught blottin’ brands. Spur Treadwell an’ the McGill twins downed the rustlers. Afore ol’ man Reed cashed, he made Spur Dot’s guardian – ”
“I don’t believe it,” Slivers interrupted positively.
“Me, neither – but just the same Spur’s got a paper, an’ folks figger said paper is genuine.” Allen grinned sardonically.
Slivers considered this news. Then an idea flashed into his head.
“Them rustlers – they was blottin’ the Double R brand to the Double B?” he demanded.
“Yep, yuh can go up to the head of the class. Now then, kid, keep cool!” Allen paused for a moment and then grinned cheerfully at Slivers. “Spur says one rustler got away an’ that feller was yuh!”
“The dirty coyote!” Slivers’ face whitened, then flushed to an angry red, as he leaped to his feet. “I’ll kill him!”
“Keep cool, kid. Spur sure made a mistake when he tried to fasten that killin’ on yuh, ’cause yuh can easy prove yuh warn’t within five hundred mile of the Little Deadman’s when the killin’ was done. An’ let me tell yuh now, your gal don’t believe it a-tall!”
“Damn it, yuh can grin, but it – I – ”
“Shucks, there ain’t no use gettin’ her up,” Allen interrupted. “Didn’t I just tell yuh Spur overplayed his hand when he tried to fasten that second killin’ on yuh?”
Slivers regained his composure with an effort and once more sat down by the fire.
“Now, what’s to be done?” he asked.
“Yuh can’t do nothin’ in a hurry – we got to sorta wait for Spur to bungle another play. What I want of yuh is this – first, the names of the gents yuh figger yuh can trust, then I wants yuh to tell me all over again just what happened the night Iky Small got gunned,” Allen replied, as he poured out a cup of steaming black coffee.
“There’s Bill McAllister, the foreman – ” Slivers commenced.
“Ex-foreman,” Allen corrected.
Slivers Hart mentioned name after name, but the only ones who were still at the ranch were Maverick Ed Stone, Flat-foot, Shorty, Snoots Stevens, and Arizona, the cook. The rest had been replaced since Slivers left the country.
“Spur is stackin’ the deck with his own men,” Slivers commented.
“Sure. What do yuh suppose he’d do?” Allen said cheerfully. “Now, tell me about that killin’.”
“Iky Small worked for me, an’ he was so blamed lazy I kicked him off the place. I had supper with Dot Reed an’ her pa. I was goin’ to Malboro the next day to try an’ wrangle some money out of ol’ ‘Miser’ Jimpson, so I decides to cut for town an’ stay there for the night. It’s close to thirty mile from the Double R to town an’ it’s near midnight when I gets to the crossroads, where the trail branches off to my outfit, the Double B. I meets ‘Squint’ Lane, an’ he tells me ‘Doc’ Hollis has hotfooted it out to see my ma, who is plumb sick. His cayuse is fresh an’ mine is tuckered, so he offers to swap. We changes saddles, an’ I hotfoot it to my place – it’s about twenty-five mile from there.
“When I gets there, I find my ma sleepin’ peaceful an’ not sick a-tall. I gets hot under the collar at that, for I figger Squint done it as a joke. Makin’ a hombre ride fifty mile ain’t no joke, an’ so I gets mad. I throws Squint’s hoss in the corral, forks another, an’ hits for town to give Squint a drubbin’. It was close to ten in the morning when I gets near town. I meets Snoots Stevens, an’ he tells me that Iky Small was gunned, shot through the back of the head, an’ that a bunch of stranglers is lookin’ for me.
“So I hits out for the Double R, ’cause ol’ John Reed is a friend of mine, an’ I figgers he’ll tell me what to do. When I gets to the Double R, I finds Spur Treadwell an’ Dot settin’ on the front porch, an’ they tells me ol’ John ain’t home. Dot sees I’m plumb worried, so she sorta hints to Spur he ain’t wanted. Spur gets up an’ grins at me an’ says: ‘Every dog has his day.’”
“An’ because he said that yuh figger he knows what’s comin’?” Allen interrupted.
“Yep, that an’ one other thing. Every puncher was away from the ranch that day, an’ Spur turned all the hosses out of the corral, so when I see the stranglers comin’, I has to light out on a tired horse, an’ they damn near catch me.” Slivers ended his story and rolled a cigarette.
“So on the night of the killin’ yuh ain’t got no alibi whatsoever, ’cause yuh was ridin’ about the range all by your lonesome all night?”
“An’ the next day, when John Reed looks for Squint, they tells him Squint left town a week afore, an’ One-wing McCann says he got a letter from Squint postmarked up in Utah, so everybody figgers I never seen Squint an’ am lyin’. An’ that darn hoss Squint trades to me was the one Iky Small was ridin’ that night, an’ they finds it in my corral. An’ my hoss is found lame on the range, so they figgers after I kills Iky I trades hosses. If yuh can see a way out of that mess for me, I’ll say yuh ain’t only a wolf, but a whole pack of ’em.” Slivers spoke gloomily.
“An’ they say yuh first fired him an’ then killed him to close his mouth.”
“Of course, Spur would spread that aroun’ – he’s so darn complete,” Slivers answered.
“Yeh, it’s so darn complete that there’s sure a hole in it somewhere,” Allen said paradoxically. “Yuh got a real good friend in town?”
“Yeh, Doc Hollis – he’d swear I was innocent if I was guilty as hell. He’s courtin’ my ma,” Slivers ended with a faint smile.
“Well, I’m goin’. Yuh sit tight an’ don’t go off half cocked,” Allen warned.
He saddled Honeyboy and left Princess behind. He knew there was a risk in changing mounts, but this had to be taken, as Princess had been ridden far that day, and it would be necessary to ride fast if he wished to return to the ranch before daylight.
He had just finished rubbing the sweat marks off Honeyboy on his return to the ranch, and had just slipped into the bunk house, when the ranch began to waken.
As Allen stepped out of the cookhouse after breakfast that morning, his face was swathed in a flannel bandage. He saw that both the twins were watching him. He slipped through the bar of the corral and headed toward Bill McAllister, who was preparing to rope his mount for that day.
“Say, mister, can I have another cayuse to ride to-day?” Allen asked. He did not want the twins to see him mounted on a gray horse.
“Yeh, fork that roan mare,” McAllister said shortly, as he glanced shrewdly from beneath his shaggy eyebrows at the boy.
“I got me a terrible toothache,” Allen volunteered to several punchers, as he was saddling the roan. They glanced at his bandaged face and offered various sure cures.
“Shucks! I think I’ll go to town an’ have the darn thing yanked out,” the little outlaw told them.
Bill McAllister and Allen skillfully cut some twenty horses from the milling crowd in the corral, drove them through the gate, and started them toward the cavvy. Among them was the gray.
As Allen swept by the twins and Spur Treadwell, Mac McGill watched him and then shook his head.
“He sure rides like him,” he said thoughtfully.
“He sure does,” Sandy agreed.
“Who’s that?” Spur Treadwell asked.
“Last night, in the bunk house, I was certain that kid was Jim Allen, but we jumped him an’ finds him naked like a baby,” Sandy explained.
“Yuh thought he was the Wolf?” Spur Treadwell asked. His eyes followed Allen.
“Yeh, but I reckon we was wrong,” Mac said indifferently.
“Mebbe so, but I aims to talk turkey to that kid when I next sees him an’ make plumb certain,” Sandy said flatly.
“One-wing knows him,” Spur Treadwell announced.
His mind was occupied with other things. He frowned and then rolled a cigarette.
“Why don’t yuh marry the gal an’ save all this bother?” Mac asked maliciously.
The cords tightened in Spur’s neck at this taunt, but his eyes showed no resentment when they met Mack’s. Though he had sufficient courage, he was not foolish enough to quarrel with either of the twins. They were too deadly with a gun. He knew their type – knew their blood lust – knew that if he pressed them, they would drop him as quickly as they would some hobo puncher. No, he would never place himself in a position where he would be forced to draw against them. Later, after they had outgrown their usefulness – that was different. They would pay then for any taunts they threw at him now.
“Mebbe I will marry the gal – but I don’t hanker none to have no rich wife – they get bossy,” he said coldly.
The twins grinned at each other, then the three strolled slowly toward the house.
About a mile from the ranch house, Bill McAllister pulled his horse over close to Allen, and the two rode on side by side in silence. The bunch of horses trotted on ahead.
“Kid, I hears about the ruction yuh had in the bunk house last night with the twins. I’m askin’ yuh, who are yuh?” the old horse wrangler said keenly.
“What yuh mean?” Allen said innocently.
“Yuh was out ridin’ last night – I see the saddle marks on that gray of yourn – an’ what’s more, it ain’t the same one yuh was ridin’ yesterday. That was a mare. Figgered mebbe yuh didn’t want folks to notice, so I brung him along,” McAllister said bluntly.
Allen cast one quick glance at the honest, rugged face of the old-timer and made up his mind to trust him.
“All right – I’m Jim-twin Allen,” he said soberly.
Bill McAllister’s jaws worked rhythmically for a minute as he studied Allen. He touched his pony with his spurs and dashed forward to head off several horses that were breaking away from the bunch. When the horses were again bunched, he dropped back to the outlaw’s side. He skillfully hit a distant stone with tobacco juice and then took up the conversation where he had left it.
“I’ve heard tell of yuh. What’s your game?”
Allen briefly told him how he had met Slivers and of his belief that the boy had been framed by Spur Treadwell. Bill McAllister listened in silence.
“Always thought there was something funny about that killin’. So Slivers figgers Spur framed him. I ain’t sayin’ Slivers wasn’t jobbed, but yuh an’ he is plumb mistook if yuh figgers Spur done it. He ain’t that kind of a feller – he ain’t enough of a fool to do anythin’ raw.”
“I ain’t sayin’ he’s a fool an’ I don’t figger he done anythin’ raw, ’cause the job was planned by a gent with a head on him,” Allen grinned.
Bill McAllister chewed reflectively for a moment and then nodded his head.
“An’ don’t be forgettin’ that Spur turned the hosses out of the corral when he sees the posse comin’, an’ Slivers says he acted like he expected ’em,” Allen argued.
“Mebbe so. But, son, yuh’re runnin’ agin’ somethin’ that’s big an’ hard when yuh tackle Spur,” Bill warned.
“Sure – but a wolf can drag down a bull moose,” Allen replied and smiled. After they had turned the horses into the big pasture, he added: “This bein’ Saturday, the bunch will be headin’ for town. I’m goin’ to have Doc pull a tooth for me. Yuh want to meet me there?”
“So that’s why yuh got a toothache so suddenlike?” the old-timer asked.
“Them twins is darn suspicious, so I figgered it would cover my face likewise.”
“Yuh watch them twins. Arizona says yuh is quick like a snake, but there is two of ’em,” the old man warned.
“Arizona – he knows me?”
“Not him, but his brother down in Cannondale knows yuh plenty. He wrote how yuh had yourself tossed through the window and cleaned out a bunch of woman stealers across the border. If half what he wrote’s the truth, I’m sayin’ yuh’ve got nerve aplenty,” Bill McAllister said admiringly.
“Shucks! Yuh’re too ol’ to talk such loose language,” Allen answered irritably.
CHAPTER XXII
ON SQUINT’S TRAIL
Doc Hollis’ house was at the far end of town. It was small and set quite a way back from the street. Shortly after dark that night, Allen pushed open the gate and walked up the path. On the porch he stood and listened for a moment. He had no reason to fear a trap, but his life had taught him the cautiousness of a wolf. He waited for a moment and then knocked on the door. Doc Hollis opened it, and Allen entered the small living room where he found Bill McAllister before him.
“Doc, this is the gent I tol’ yuh about,” the old horse wrangler said bluntly.
Allen shook hands with Doc and grinned a greeting. Doc Hollis was a small, rotund man with a smooth, bald head. He stared in puzzled wonder at the outlaw. It seemed impossible that this smiling, freckle-faced boy could be the most notorious gunman of all time.
Allen seemed to read his thoughts, for he said with a broad, loose grin: “I’m sure me.”
The doctor chuckled, and Bill McAllister’s leathery face broke into a fleeting smile.
“What yuh aimin’ to do?” Doc asked curiously.
“Postmaster a friend of yourn?” Allen countered.
“Frank Cragg? He sure is,” Doc answered.
“Do yuh figger he’d fake a letter – postmarks an’ the whole thing – an’ make believe it just arrived from New Mex for Squint Lane?” Allen asked.
“Reckon he would. Why?”
“Well, if he tol’ folks he had a letter which looked important for Squint, mebbe one of Squint’s friends would put a new address on it, an’ then we’d know where to look for Squint,” Allen said, grinning.
“I’m bettin’ there’s three or four of Spur’s gunmen who knows where Squint’s holdin’ out,” Doc cried excitedly.
In case the letter was opened by some friends, they carefully wrote a long epistle from a supposed friend of Squint’s in New Mexico.
“Now, Doc, there’s one other thing yuh can do. Did yuh ever stop to figger that if Slivers was blottin’ Double R cows to Double B, it’s darn funny that after he lights out there wasn’t enough cows to sell an’ pay off a measly eight hundred what he owed to ol’ Miser Jimpson.”
“Darn me – that’s true,” Bill McAllister growled.
“Sure is – an’ I never thought about it,” Doc commented.
“Then yuh start other folks a-thinkin’. Sorta hints that the gent what framed Slivers was the one what ran off his Double B cows.”
Doc persuaded Allen to wait for them; there was no use for him to run the risk of being recognized on the streets. Doc Hollis and McAllister would visit the post office and arrange about the letter, and then they would all have supper with Mrs. Hart, Slivers’ mother.
As the two walked toward the door, Allen stopped them.
“When did this rustlin’ start?” he asked.
“About six-seven months ago. Old man Reed began to suspect some one was makin’ free with his cows. He started the boys ridin’ night herd. Pretty soon a bunch of ’em runs into a gang of rustlers, an’ two of ’em, Bill Steel an’ ‘Big-foot’ gets downed. The old man knows then the rustlers is strong an’ workin’ hard, so he sends down to the border for a bunch of gunmen. But the rustlin’ goes right on – we has several night battles. Then Slivers is supposed to down Iky Small an’ lights for the hills.” McAllister concluded and cut off a large piece of black plug, which he thrust into his mouth.
“But the rustlin’ goes right on?” Allen asked.
“Correct. Then the ol’ man gets plumb crazy, ’cause his cows is bein’ run off wholesale. A little later he gets downed,” Doc cut in.
“Any rustlin’ since then?”
“The boys ain’t reported nothin’ suspicious, but there ain’t a hell of a lot of Double R cows left,” Bill McAllister said, after a moment’s thought.
“When did this here Spur Treadwell person turn up?” Allen asked.
“Now, look here, Jim, yuh’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,” Bill said warmly. “Spur ain’t got nothin’ to do with this rustlin’. ’Cause why? ’Cause didn’t he down them rustlers what gunned the old man? No gent could get away with a thing like that, ’cause tother gents workin’ for him would sure quit.”
“That’s sure correct,” Doc said gravely. “An’ didn’t Spur, after John Reed was killed, go tearin’ over to Boston Jack’s outfit ready to tear it apart. An’ he sure would have if he’d found anythin’ wrong. An’ Sandy McGill dropped one of Boston’s men. No, sir, Spur ain’t in cahoots with Boston or he could never get away with a thing like that.”
“Jim, yuh’re sure wrong about Spur,” Bill insisted. “I ain’t sayin’ he didn’t frame Slivers ’cause of Dot, but he ain’t no rustler,” Bill insisted.
Jim Allen had far more knowledge of the duplicity of which some men are capable than the other two. It was hard for him to understand how any men could be so blind. He looked at them quizzically for a moment.
“Yuh see ol’ man Reed after he was shot?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Sure – we both see him,” Doc replied. “They sent for me when he was shot, but when I reached the ranch Spur tol’ me he was dead. I was goin’ to look at him, but Spur says I couldn’t do no good an’ for me to tend to Dot.”
“Then yuh didn’t see him?” Allen asked sharply, with a touch of acute disappointment in his voice.
“Yeh, I did. Me an’ Bill, here, was his oldest friends, so we sneaked in to sorta say good-by all by ourselves, late that night,” Doc said sadly.
“An’ I’m bettin’ yuh both was mad when yuh see how he was shot to pieces.”
“We sure swore loud and plenty,” McAllister growled.
Doc Hollis stared at the outlaw, and then took two quick steps toward him.
“Most folks don’t know he was shot up bad. How’d yuh know?” he asked, as a quick suspicion entered his mind.
Allen’s face held a hopeless expression as he met the angry eyes of the older man.
“Yuh thinkin’, ’cause I claims to be a friend of Slivers – an’ as Spur says he was there, mebbe I was, too, when the old man got his?” he asked sarcastically. “That sorta proves yuh can think, but if yuh’ll recollect that Spur is now Dot’s guardian, mebbe yuh’ll see what I see.”
Doc Hollis looked from Allen to Bill McAllister. His face wore a puzzled expression. Slowly this changed to one of startled wonder and then to furious anger.
“The thing was so complete I never thinks. Damn the skulkin’ coyote! Don’t yuh see, Bill? Think! The old man couldn’t write that will after he was downed!” Doc cried excitedly.
“Hell! I sure does now – but them dead rustlers – the thing was so pat,” McAllister mumbled.
The moment when full realization of how their old friend had been foully murdered reached their minds, Allen had all he could do to keep them from dashing out and trying to exact a summary revenge. He pointed out that a hasty move would spoil everything and, little by little, calmed the two older men.
A few minutes later, the two walked out and headed toward the post office. Arriving there, they told the postmaster everything. They got an envelope and addressed it to Squint Lane. The mail came in on the stage at seven that night, and the postmaster promised to show the letter to all who came for their mail.
“Bill, yuh an’ me an’ the rest of the folks in this town is plumb blind,” Doc said sadly.
“We sure is, but Jim Allen ain’t. Do yuh know, Doc, I bet there’s a dozen men in this town what would give an arm to get a shot at his back, an’ he goes roun’ grinning like a schoolboy,” Bill remarked.
They stopped and picked up Allen at Doc’s house and continued on to Mrs. Hart’s little cottage.
She was a short, motherly looking woman with bright-blue eyes and graying sandy hair. “Lands sake, what’s the matter with the boy?” she asked.
“I got a toothache,” Allen replied.
At that she bustled about him like a hen with a lone chick. Allen played the part of the suffering boy until he caught sight of two large, brown pies on the kitchen table, when he instantly lost all interest in everything but those works of art.
“Pies! Well, I’m jiggered if it ain’t pies!” He added greedily: “Yuh aimin’ to give us a piece of that?”
“After yuh eat, yes,” Mrs. Hart replied with a smile.
“I hate to waste space,” Allen said regretfully. The two other men chuckled, and the woman shook her head.
“Yuh’re just like my boy – he was always crazy for sweets.” Her words brought bitter memories to her, and her eyes clouded.
Allen pecked at his food, and his unabashed greediness, as he cast longing glances at the pies, made the woman momentarily forget her grief at being separated from her son. At last, she could no longer stand his wistful, greedy eyes, and arose and cut him a big piece of pie. He gobbled it down before she could regain her seat. With a laugh, she cut him a second piece. As she handed it to him, there came a knock on the door. The others started, but Allen continued to eat his pie.
Mrs. Hart opened the door, and the postmaster entered at a run, bubbling with excitement.
“It sure worked. ‘Lefty’ Simms takes that letter an’ sticks it into another envelope an’ addresses it. I fishes it out. Shucks, I suppose I robbed the mails, but here she is,” he cried, as he held out the letter triumphantly.
Bill McAllister grabbed the letter, glanced at it, and then handed it to Allen, who read the address and grinned gleefully.
“Shucks! He’s way down at Brushtown, along the border,” McAllister said in disappointment.
“But Brushtown ain’t far from Cannondale, an’ I got – ”
“Whoopee, I get yuh! Yuh got friends down there,” Bill McAllister interrupted, “I betcha yuh do have, after what yuh done – ”
At Allen’s warning glance, the old-timer brought his sentence to a close with a series of coughs.
“What yuh goin’ to do?” Doc asked.
“Me? I’m aimin’ to eat another piece of pie, if Mrs. Hart will give it to me, then I’m goin’ to ride to Three Roads Junction an’ send a telegram,” Allen said carelessly.
Mrs. Hart hastily arose and cut Allen a double portion of pie. The postmaster stared at Allen with protruding eyes. He was too overcome to speak. He nudged Bill McAllister and pointed to Allen. The old horse wrangler nodded in reply.
Doc Hollis volunteered to furnish Allen with a fast horse and then hastened away to saddle it. Five minutes later, he was back again. Allen finished the pie, thanked Mrs. Hart, walked outside, mounted the waiting horse, and rode away into the night.
“He sure does things casuallike,” the doctor said admiringly.
“It’s sure him,” the postmaster said in awe.
“Yeh, but don’t go talkin’ loud,” Bill McAllister warned.
“What is it? Who is that boy?” Ma Hart asked.
“Never yuh mind that,” Doc told her seriously. “Yuh get down on your knees this night an’ pray if yuh want to see that boy of yourn again – pray as yuh never prayed afore that nothin’ happens to the White Wolf to-night.”
“Who is he? The White Wolf? What could happen to him?” the woman asked, bewildered.
Doc pointed to a picture of a man on a white horse that hung over the mantelpiece.
“Read me that there title!” he said.
Wondering, the woman read: “I saw a man on a white horse, and his name was Death!”
“That’s him!”
The other two gravely nodded their heads. The woman glanced from the picture to the three solemn faces and then back to the picture again.
Late that night Bill McAllister and Doc Hollis laughed softly to themselves. The rumor they had started was spreading like wildfire. On their way home, at least three friends stopped them and said practically the same thing:
“Yuh know, I been thinkin’. If Slivers Hart was rustlin’ cows, how come there warn’t no cows on the ranch when the sheriff seized it? It’s funny about the killin’ of John Reed – ” They all would go that far and then nod as if they could say more if they were so inclined.
“Folks is sure startin’ to think,” McAllister chuckled.
The following morning Bill McAllister was with the cavvy when Allen trotted down a slope and rode toward him.
“Yuh send it all right?” the old man asked eagerly.
“Yeh.” Allen slipped to the ground and unsaddled his horse, which was drooping from fatigue. “There is two things I wants yuh to do. Don’t tell her any more than yuh have to – ’cause she might act hopeful an’ give her hand away – but tell Dot to insult Spur Treadwell – call him names, say he ain’t nothin’ but a bull of a man an’ that she’s plumb disgusted with him. Then I wants yuh to make me night wrangler.”
With that, even before Bill McAllister could ask the reason for these requests, Allen curled up beneath a clump of brush and was asleep.