“The thing was so complete I never thinks. Damn the skulkin’ coyote! Don’t yuh see, Bill? Think! The old man couldn’t write that will after he was downed!” Doc cried excitedly.
“Hell! I sure does now—but them dead rustlers—the thing was so pat,” McAllister mumbled.
The moment when full realization of how their old friend had been foully murdered reached their minds, Allen had all he could do to keep them from dashing out and trying to exact a summary revenge. He pointed out that a hasty move would spoil everything and, little by little, calmed the two older men.
A few minutes later, the two walked out and headed toward the post office. Arriving there, they told the postmaster everything. They got an envelope and addressed it to Squint Lane. The mail came in on the stage at seven that night, and the postmaster promised to show the letter to all who came for their mail.
“Bill, yuh an’ me an’ the rest of the folks in this town is plumb blind,” Doc said sadly.
“We sure is, but Jim Allen ain’t. Do yuh know, Doc, I bet there’s a dozen men in this town what would give an arm to get a shot at his back, an’ he goes roun’ grinning like a schoolboy,” Bill remarked.
They stopped and picked up Allen at Doc’s house and continued on to Mrs. Hart’s little cottage.
She was a short, motherly looking woman with bright-blue eyes and graying sandy hair. “Lands sake, what’s the matter with the boy?” she asked.
“I got a toothache,” Allen replied.
At that she bustled about him like a hen with a lone chick. Allen played the part of the suffering boy until he caught sight of two large, brown pies on the kitchen table, when he instantly lost all interest in everything but those works of art.