“Yep, yuh can go up to the head of the class. Now then, kid, keep cool!” Allen paused for a moment and then grinned cheerfully at Slivers. “Spur says one rustler got away an’ that feller was yuh!”
“The dirty coyote!” Slivers’ face whitened, then flushed to an angry red, as he leaped to his feet. “I’ll kill him!”
“Keep cool, kid. Spur sure made a mistake when he tried to fasten that killin’ on yuh, ’cause yuh can easy prove yuh warn’t within five hundred mile of the Little Deadman’s when the killin’ was done. An’ let me tell yuh now, your gal don’t believe it a-tall!”
“Damn it, yuh can grin, but it—I——”
“Shucks, there ain’t no use gettin’ her up,” Allen interrupted. “Didn’t I just tell yuh Spur overplayed his hand when he tried to fasten that second killin’ on yuh?”
Slivers regained his composure with an effort and once more sat down by the fire.
“Now, what’s to be done?” he asked.
“Yuh can’t do nothin’ in a hurry—we got to sorta wait for Spur to bungle another play. What I want of yuh is this—first, the names of the gents yuh figger yuh can trust, then I wants yuh to tell me all over again just what happened the night Iky Small got gunned,” Allen replied, as he poured out a cup of steaming black coffee.
“There’s Bill McAllister, the foreman——” Slivers commenced.
“Ex-foreman,” Allen corrected.