“Gosh darn these fool people an’ their family troubles,” he grumbled.
Then, between impatience and discomfort, he started for the house. It was a low-walled structure. The windows opened on a level with his waist. The door stood ajar, casting a knife-blade gleam. The window laid a bright square on the snow. Abreast of it Charlie stopped.
A man lay face down on the floor, his head turned sidewise, arms spread in a crooked curve. He had black hair like Bill Mather’s. His face, white in the lamplight, was very like Bad Land Bill’s, only it was curiously twisted, the mouth open, slack jawed. A white-handled gun lay just beyond the fingertips of one hand. Bill Mather stood over him, staring like a man shocked and bewildered.
Charlie stepped into the doorway. His rider turned like a cat. His gun came halfway out of its holster on his hip.
“Looks like your hunch was right.” Charlie said.
“She’s gone,” young Mather said. “Munson’s killed Jed an’ took her. He’s stone cold. Stiff as a board. Must ’a’ been done yesterday.”
“Your brother?”
Bill nodded.
“We never hitched good,” he said, after a long interval. “But he was my brother. An’ Dolly’s gone. Munson’s took her away. An’ she hated the sight of him.”
“Gosh, Bill, that don’t follow,”. Charlie declared. “A killin’ is a killin’. It happens now an’ then. But men don’t steal women against their will.”