“Who’s this gun-slingin’ hombre?”
“Jack-twin Allen, the Wyoming sheriff.”
Pop Howes glanced at the small figure sitting by the fire, started to speak, thought better of it, and clumped from the room. The messenger followed.
The woman glanced curiously at Jim Allen, but her curiosity was tinged by sympathy and understanding. After a moment she asked falteringly:
“He’s your brother?”
“Yeh. Twin brother.” The voice was toneless, flat.
“An’—have you spoken to him?” she asked. At the sight of his face she instantly regretted her words.
“Naw, an’ I don’t reckon I will. ’Cause, yuh see, Jack’s here on business, an’ he can’t go cavortin’ about with a disreputable gent like me. Reckon I’ll pull out pronto.”
Jim Allen was grinning now and he spoke with assumed indifference, but the woman saw behind the mask.
“Let me tell yuh somethin’, ma’am. Jack Allen is the darnedest, fightingest gent I ever see. Let me tell yuh what he done now.”