“Yuh was out ridin’ last night—I see the saddle marks on that gray of yourn—an’ what’s more, it ain’t the same one yuh was ridin’ yesterday. That was a mare. Figgered mebbe yuh didn’t want folks to notice, so I brung him along,” McAllister said bluntly.
Allen cast one quick glance at the honest, rugged face of the old-timer and made up his mind to trust him.
“All right—I’m Jim-twin Allen,” he said soberly.
Bill McAllister’s jaws worked rhythmically for a minute as he studied Allen. He touched his pony with his spurs and dashed forward to head off several horses that were breaking away from the bunch. When the horses were again bunched, he dropped back to the outlaw’s side. He skillfully hit a distant stone with tobacco juice and then took up the conversation where he had left it.
“I’ve heard tell of yuh. What’s your game?”
Allen briefly told him how he had met Slivers and of his belief that the boy had been framed by Spur Treadwell. Bill McAllister listened in silence.
“Always thought there was something funny about that killin’. So Slivers figgers Spur framed him. I ain’t sayin’ Slivers wasn’t jobbed, but yuh an’ he is plumb mistook if yuh figgers Spur done it. He ain’t that kind of a feller—he ain’t enough of a fool to do anythin’ raw.”
“I ain’t sayin’ he’s a fool an’ I don’t figger he done anythin’ raw, ’cause the job was planned by a gent with a head on him,” Allen grinned.
Bill McAllister chewed reflectively for a moment and then nodded his head.
“An’ don’t be forgettin’ that Spur turned the hosses out of the corral when he sees the posse comin’, an’ Slivers says he acted like he expected ’em,” Allen argued.