A man, whose manner and well-groomed appearance betokened city residence, mingled with the groups about the cattle company’s office, listening with interest to everything that was said. He himself did not often speak, but when he did every one listened with attention. He was of medium stature, of compact, wiry build, had large eyes of a pale, brilliant gray, and a thin face with prominent features. He joined Miss Delarue when she came down the street on her way home.
“You get up very sudden storms in your quiet town, Miss Delarue,” he said. “An hour ago Las Plumas was as sleepy and decorous—and dead—as the graveyard on the hill over yonder. But a man rides up and says ten words and, br-r-r, the whole population is agog and ready to spring at one another’s throats.”
“Yes,” she assented, “when I went up town a little while ago everything was as quiet as usual. What is the excitement all about?”
“Why, they are saying that Emerson Mead has killed Will Whittaker!”
“What!”
Her face suddenly went white, and she stared at him with wide, horrified eyes.
“It may not be true.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it can be true!”
He swept her face with a sudden, curious glance.