Horror filled the eyes of the girl, and a terrible grief.
“Dead—Miguel dead?”
“Shot twice, Miss Stella,” answered the latter, regret in his tone. “We seen the whole thing. I left ‘Chuck’ Hansom to bring Miguel in, then I come on. Ye see, ma’am, we’d been lookin’ for this gent since yesterday. Seems like he met my foreman, Matt Brady, and shot him down, out o’ pure cussedness.”
“Don’t forget Knute,” intervened Robinson, smiling a thin smile. “Don’t forget him, Buck.”
“Oh!” Estella turned to the speaker swiftly. “Tell me—tell him, you must! This isn’t true!”
“Sho, of course it ain’t true,” said Robinson calmly. “Sure’s my name’s Jack Robinson, it ain’t got a word of truth—except maybe that poor Miguel’s dead. That’s liable to be true.”
The girl shrank away from him; then, with a burst of tears, ran from the veranda.
Instantly the manner of Robinson changed. He looked at Buck from narrowed steely eyes that burned.
“Buck,” he said softly, “I’m tellin’ you here and now—you’d better shoot while you got me, for you ain’t goin’ to have me long. You’d better shoot, Buck. I’m warnin’ you, it’s your best chance. After this, you and me——”
“None of your big talk, Robinson,” sneered the rancher. “We have you dead to rights, and we’ll see that the law attends to you. Hey, there! Come up and rope this gent! We’ll take him in to the sheriff right off.”