“Look here, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Jensen, kindly, “you done me a good turn oncet thet I ain’t a-never goin’ to forgit. I don’t mind tellin’ you I ain’t never thought you killed the ol’ man, but everyone else thinks so.”
“Even Chita?” asked Shoz-Dijiji.
“I wouldn’t say she does and I wouldn’t say she doesn’t, but she ain’t never took off the thousand dollar reward she offered to any hombre what would bring you in dead.”
Not by the quiver of an eyelid did Shoz-Dijiji reveal the anguish of his tortured heart as he listened to the words that blasted forever the sole hope of happiness that had buoyed him through the long days and nights of his journey up through hostile Sonora and even more hostile Arizona.
“You get one thousand dollars, you kill me?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Why you no kill me, then?”
Jensen shrugged. “I reckon it must be for the same reason you didn’t kill me when you had the chancet, Shoz-Dijiji,” he replied. “There must be a streak of white in both of us.”
“Good-bye,” said Shoz-Dijiji, abruptly. “I go now.”
“Say, before you go would you mind tellin’ me fer sure thet it wasn’t you killed the ol’ man?” asked Luke.