“Doc, this is the gent I tol’ yuh about,” the old horse wrangler said bluntly.
Allen shook hands with Doc and grinned a greeting. Doc Hollis was a small, rotund man with a smooth, bald head. He stared in puzzled wonder at the outlaw. It seemed impossible that this smiling, freckle-faced boy could be the most notorious gunman of all time.
Allen seemed to read his thoughts, for he said with a broad, loose grin: “I’m sure me.”
The doctor chuckled, and Bill McAllister’s leathery face broke into a fleeting smile.
“What yuh aimin’ to do?” Doc asked curiously.
“Postmaster a friend of yourn?” Allen countered.
“Frank Cragg? He sure is,” Doc answered.
“Do yuh figger he’d fake a letter—postmarks an’ the whole thing—an’ make believe it just arrived from New Mex for Squint Lane?” Allen asked.
“Reckon he would. Why?”
“Well, if he tol’ folks he had a letter which looked important for Squint, mebbe one of Squint’s friends would put a new address on it, an’ then we’d know where to look for Squint,” Allen said, grinning.