“You’ve seen him,” I yawned, standing up. “Where’s that breakfast you were bragging about?”
Six men were eating in the chuck-shack when we came in. Three of them were hands I hadn’t seen before. Neither Peery, Wheelan, nor Vogel was there. Milk River introduced me to the strangers as the high-diving deputy sheriff, and, between bites of the food the one-eyed Chinese cook put on the table, the meal was devoted almost exclusively to wise cracks about my riding ability.
That suited me. I was sore and stiff, but my bruises weren’t wasted. I had bought myself a place of some sort in this desert community, and maybe even a friend or two. In less than a day I had accomplished what, by milder means, would have taken weeks, or months. These cowhands were kidding me just about as they would have kidded each other.
We were following the smoke of our cigarettes outdoors when running hoofs brought a swirl of dust up the draw.
Red Wheelan slid off his horse and staggered out of the sand-cloud.
“Slim’s dead!” he said thickly.
Half a dozen voices shot questions at him. He stood swaying, trying to answer them. He was drunk as a lord!
“Nisbet shot him. I heard about it when I woke up this mornin’. He was shot early this mornin’—in front of Bardell’s. I left ’em aroun’ midnight last night, an’ went down to Gaia’s. I heard about it this mornin’. I went after Nisbet, but”—he looked down sheepishly at his empty belt—“Bardell took m’ gun away.”
He swayed again. I caught him, steadying him.
“Horses!” Peery bawled over my shoulder. “We’re going to town!”