The man was in his forties, of medium height, and stockily built. He had a round, apple-cheeked face and a jovial manner—one of those men whom others like on sight and hail as a boon companion. Yet a close observer might have detected something about the eyes that seemed to contradict the first impression.
“He rides around with the judge a hull lot,” Toothpick explained further. “Why for did yuh ask?”
“Knew a gent what looks like him once,” Dutchy muttered, with his eyes still watching Anderson, “twenty years ago.”
“Then it can’t be him.”
“Might have been his father,” Dutchy grunted.
They walked toward the others and arrived in time to hear the judge ask them:
“Who do you suppose did this?”
There was a moment of silence which was broken by Bill Anderson.
“I was over in Arizona last week, and the papers were talking about some renegade Apache who were raiding along the border. Maybe they have worked up this way,” he suggested.
“Maybe so,” the sheriff said doubtfully.