“I saw him! I saw him!” cackled the storekeeper. “Little man, smaller than Charlie—and young. About twenty. Came in after you all left,” he said, addressing Lull. “Mailed a letter. Ridin’ a blue horse, he was—a grullo. That the man you met?”
“Yes. But riding a blue horse doesn’t prove that a man has done murder. Nor yet mailing a letter. Or being young. We knew that man went through Garfield. That’s nothing new. He told us he was going on to Hillsboro.”
“That was a blind, I reckon. He can turn always back, soon as he gets out of sight,” said Hales.
“He went that way,” piped the storekeeper. “Mailed a letter here, bought a shoe and tacked it on his horse. I fished round to find out who he was, but he put me off. Finally I asked him, p’int-blank. ‘You didn’t say what your name was,’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘I didn’t.’ And off he went, laughing, impydent as hell!”
“Did you notice the brand on his horse?” asked Charlie. “He passed on our right-hand side, so we didn’t see it.”
“No, I didn’t. He took the Greenhorn road, and he was ridin’ middlin’ slow.”
“If you had used your mouth less and your eyes more, you might have something to tell us,” sneered Hales.
“Little man on a grullo horse—that’s enough for us—we’re goin’!” snapped Caney. “Say, you fellers make me plumb sick! The murderer’s getting away, and all you do is blat. We’re goin’, and we’re goin’ now!”
“Something tells me you won’t,” said Pete Harkey.