When, to Kate’s horror, Bowers had wiped off the top of the stove with the dishcloth and removed some lingering moisture from the inside of a frying pan with his elbow, she said, rising:
“I’m up at four, so I go to bed early. You can sleep in Uncle Joe’s tepee,” to Lingle, “and you needn’t get up for breakfast when we do. I suppose,” to Bowers, “you’ll want to start in to-morrow, so I’ll go with you and show you the range we’re feeding over.” With a friendly good night she turned towards the entrance.
Lingle rose with a look of desperation on his countenance.
“Just a minute.” There was that in his voice which made her turn quickly and look from one to the other in wonder.
Lingle had a feeling that his vocal cords had turned to wire, they moved so stiffly, when he heard himself saying:
“Guess I’ll have to ask you to take a ride with me to-morrow.”
“Me?” Her eyes widened. “What for?”
The yellow flame flickered in the smudged chimney of the lantern on the table, a bit of burning wood fell out from the front of the stove and lay smoking on the dirt floor in front of it. Bowers stood rigid by the basin where he had been washing his hands, with the water dripping from his fingers.
In a frenzy to have it over the deputy blurted out harshly:
“Mormon Joe’s been murdered!”