“Your name Ross?” she demanded.
“It is, ma’am,” he meekly answered. “Will——”
“My name’s Mehitabel Crump, with a Mrs. for a handle,” she stated. “You got a man by the name o’ Shea workin’ here?”
“Yes’m,” said Ross, staring. So this was the Mrs. Crump of whom Shea had spoken! “Yes’m. Will ye come in? I’ll go right up the cañon and fetch him——”
“You shut up,” she snapped, harshly. “I aim to do my own fetchin’, and I aim to have a word with you here and now, stranger. I hear you been keepin’ Thady Shea filled up with booze.”
Ross was staggered, not only by the amazing appearance of this woman here, but by her direct attack. She meant business, savage business, and showed it.
Those last words, however, suggested an explanation to Ross. On the previous day he had given the ancient an “earful” about Thady Shea and the whiskey. This woman, who now turned out to be Shea’s friend Mrs. Crump, had given the ancient a ride westward. The connection was too obvious to miss.
“You got all that dope from old Griffith, eh?” he said. “I was at Datil yesterday and seen you there. If I ever see that old fool Griffith again, I’ll poke a bullet through him!”
“Then you ain’t real liable to do it,” said Mrs. Crump, grimly. “If that old vagabone told me the truth, I aim to put you where you won’t give whiskey to no more men. Now, hombre, speak up real soft and sudden! Did you give Thady Shea whiskey—or not?”
In the blue eyes of Mrs. Crump was a look which Ross had not seen since the days of his boyhood. Even then he had seen it only once or twice, before the “killers” of the old days were put under sod. Knowing what caused that look, Ross laughed—but he laughed to himself.