“But the rustlin’ goes right on?” Allen asked.
“Correct. Then the ol’ man gets plumb crazy, ’cause his cows is bein’ run off wholesale. A little later he gets downed,” Doc cut in.
“Any rustlin’ since then?”
“The boys ain’t reported nothin’ suspicious, but there ain’t a hell of a lot of Double R cows left,” Bill McAllister said, after a moment’s thought.
“When did this here Spur Treadwell person turn up?” Allen asked.
“Now, look here, Jim, yuh’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,” Bill said warmly. “Spur ain’t got nothin’ to do with this rustlin’. ’Cause why? ’Cause didn’t he down them rustlers what gunned the old man? No gent could get away with a thing like that, ’cause tother gents workin’ for him would sure quit.”
“That’s sure correct,” Doc said gravely. “An’ didn’t Spur, after John Reed was killed, go tearin’ over to Boston Jack’s outfit ready to tear it apart. An’ he sure would have if he’d found anythin’ wrong. An’ Sandy McGill dropped one of Boston’s men. No, sir, Spur ain’t in cahoots with Boston or he could never get away with a thing like that.”
“Jim, yuh’re sure wrong about Spur,” Bill insisted. “I ain’t sayin’ he didn’t frame Slivers ’cause of Dot, but he ain’t no rustler,” Bill insisted.
Jim Allen had far more knowledge of the duplicity of which some men are capable than the other two. It was hard for him to understand how any men could be so blind. He looked at them quizzically for a moment.
“Yuh see ol’ man Reed after he was shot?” he asked unexpectedly.