He frowned a moment, lost in thought; then he squared his shoulders and met Mrs. Hallard’s gaze with eyes that were full of steady peace. He had made up his mind. His own matters must wait until he had straightened out this woman’s tangle of wrong.
“We’ve got to find this man Sawyer,” he repeated, “And I hardly know where to begin trailing him. We’ve got to get hold of Westcott, too; you say he’s at Tucson?”
“He lives there,” was the reply; “or did last I knew. I ain’t heard from him in a long time now. No need to.”
“Well: I guess the best thing to do first, is to write to him. You tell him you’ve found your deed: no need to say how. We’ll see what he’s got to say, and—” There was the least perceptible hesitation, “if he comes up here, and you want me to,” he continued evenly, “I’ll talk with him for you.”
Mrs. Hallard looked relieved.
“You’re mighty good,” she cried, “Fact is I’m afraid ... you see, I....”
The outer door was pushed open and a big Mexican vaquero put in his head.
“What’s up, Manuel?” Mrs. Hallard asked.
The vaquero hesitated: “No mas supper?” he said, tentatively.
“Supper all right,” was the reply. “You’re late, Manuel. What you doin’ off the range?”