“Sure,” whispered Kelso.
“Where’s Masten stayin’?”
“With Chavis—in the shack. He’s been there right along, except,” he finished, with a grim attempt at humor, “when he’s been rushin’ that biscuit-shooter in Lazette.”
Five minutes later, standing near one of the wheels of the chuck-wagon, gazing somberly at the men, who were carrying Kelso away, Randerson spoke grimly to Owen, who was standing beside him.
“Pickett an’ then Kelso! Both of them was sure bad enough. But I reckon Masten’s got them both roped an’ hog-tied for natural meanness.” He turned to Owen. “I reckon I had to do it, old man,” he said, a quaver in his voice.
“Buck up, Wrecks!” Owen slapped him on the shoulder, and turned toward the men.
Randerson watched him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I reckon she’d have wanted it different,” he said to himself.