“I’m bettin’ there’s three or four of Spur’s gunmen who knows where Squint’s holdin’ out,” Doc cried excitedly.
In case the letter was opened by some friends, they carefully wrote a long epistle from a supposed friend of Squint’s in New Mexico.
“Now, Doc, there’s one other thing yuh can do. Did yuh ever stop to figger that if Slivers was blottin’ Double R cows to Double B, it’s darn funny that after he lights out there wasn’t enough cows to sell an’ pay off a measly eight hundred what he owed to ol’ Miser Jimpson.”
“Darn me—that’s true,” Bill McAllister growled.
“Sure is—an’ I never thought about it,” Doc commented.
“Then yuh start other folks a-thinkin’. Sorta hints that the gent what framed Slivers was the one what ran off his Double B cows.”
Doc persuaded Allen to wait for them; there was no use for him to run the risk of being recognized on the streets. Doc Hollis and McAllister would visit the post office and arrange about the letter, and then they would all have supper with Mrs. Hart, Slivers’ mother.
As the two walked toward the door, Allen stopped them.
“When did this rustlin’ start?” he asked.
“About six-seven months ago. Old man Reed began to suspect some one was makin’ free with his cows. He started the boys ridin’ night herd. Pretty soon a bunch of ’em runs into a gang of rustlers, an’ two of ’em, Bill Steel an’ ‘Big-foot’ gets downed. The old man knows then the rustlers is strong an’ workin’ hard, so he sends down to the border for a bunch of gunmen. But the rustlin’ goes right on—we has several night battles. Then Slivers is supposed to down Iky Small an’ lights for the hills.” McAllister concluded and cut off a large piece of black plug, which he thrust into his mouth.