“Jim Bohm’s too smooth,” Mrs. Morton answered. “If you found him with a smoking gun in his hand and a man dead on the ground beside him, he’d lie out of it somehow; probably would swear that as he came up, he saw the man shoot himself. Oh! he’s a slick one. Us always said us pitied anyone who had business dealings with him, but,” she stopped as she saw Owen and Mr. Morton coming up the walk, “Mr. Brook looks like a man that can take care of himself. I’d watch out for Bohm, though. Watch out for him!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morton,” I said, as Owen came to the door. “I am glad you told me. Please come to see us,” and with conflicting emotions I prepared to leave Three Bar Ranch.
I scarcely knew what to think. I was worried, and yet——
When I told Owen I expected him to pooh-pooh the story and relieve my mind, but he did nothing of the sort. With a queer little wrinkle between his eyes, he listened attentively.
“Owen, you don’t think there is any truth in it, do you?” I asked, much troubled by his silence. He flicked a fly off Dan’s back before replying:
“I don’t know what to think. The old chap’s a rascal, there’s no doubt about that; but I didn’t suppose he was a cold-blooded murderer.”
Again I felt the ice go up and down my spine. “Great heavens, Owen, can’t you have someone go through the root cellar, to see if there is anything out of the way there? And, above all, get the stock gathered and ship Bohm—I despise him, anyhow!”
“Don’t let it worry you,” said Owen; “probably it’s all mere talk. Bohm won’t bother us; and in a few weeks the stock will all be turned over and he’ll have no excuse for staying.”
“A few weeks is a long time,” I said, gloomily, feeling as if my hold on life were gradually slipping. “According to Mrs. Morton, everybody on the place might drop dead in less time than that.”
Owen laughed, but the next moment a shadow crossed his face, and he said decisively: