“Mr. Dan McMasters is on left point, Miss Lockhart,” said Jim Nabours quietly.
“Oh!”
“Well, he’s been over the road north, anyways—the onliest one of us has. He’s a cowman. So fur, I taken him fer a square man. Not that I care a damn fer a hand’s morerls. He may be a horse thief, but jest so he don’t steal from us I don’t care.”
“Suppose a hand did steal from us.”
“I never did hear of no such thing!”
“Jim, listen! I’ve found my trunk.”
“No! Where at?”
“Sanchez found it in the—well, the McMasters wagon that went back to Gonzales this morning. We’ve got it in our cart now.”
Nabours looked far out over the gray and green of the landscape a long time before he ventured speech. His face then was sad.
“I’ve knowed men shot for less,” said he at length. “But are you sure? Do you know who done it?”