Inside the shed Sandy Larch’s face shone white in the gloom. Outside there was a sound of Broome’s hard breathing. Westcott’s statement seemed to have deprived the cowboy of speech.
“Do you remember Dan Lundy?” the lawyer said, and Sandy started.
“I never knowed ’im,” Broome replied. “He was a pal o’ Sandy Larch’s.”
“So? I didn’t know that. Then this here Gard won’t be so thick here when Sandy knows. But he won’t be very thick anywhere, in the open, for that matter.” Westcott laughed.
“This fellow’s the one who did the business for Lundy,” he added.
“Killed him?”
“Knifed him in his shack. He did three years for it, and then broke jail.”
“How d’you know?”
The foreman strained his ears to listen, a look of wondering comprehension in his face.
“That’s my business,” Westcott said. “I’ve got it down in black and white. He came up to Blue Gulch when I was there, and Frank Arnold came up to take him again. That was Arnold’s last job.”