Strenk’s grizzly chin sunk against his chest and his blue-lidded eyes were half closed. He began talking drowsily:
“Funny thing about Pete since we come back an’ filed our claims. Seemed like he got all over hatin’ to have folks come to the cabin. He ast ’em in, b’gosh, an’ sometimes talked hull sentences. Seemed like he got a kick outa havin’ his pitcher took an’ hearin’ Eastern folks say how quaint he was. Quaint, by God. Makes a he-man sick to his stummick. Me, I had to move out.”
“That was after news got around about Pete’s rich strike,” Sheriff Fleming explained to Shayne. “There was a piece about him in the Register-Call with his picture, and the Festival crowd pestered him a lot. You got to admit that striking it rich changes a man a little,” he ended apologetically.
Shayne said, “Yeh. That’s natural, of course. Any particular people you can mention?” he asked Strenk.
The old miner’s expression changed quickly from disgust to one of sly pleasure. The provocative hinting at untold secrets filmed his eyes again. He waggled his head and said, “Don’t know’s I can name any of ’em — me not takin’ any part in it and not bein’ quaint enough for pitchers to be sent back home.”
“Could you describe any of Pete’s visitors?” Shayne asked.
“Waal — yes. A couple of flashy sports an’ a older one not so flashy. They was allus buyin’ drinks for Pete ’round town.”
Shayne stiffened. In careful detail he described Two-Deck Bryant and his gunmen. “Would they be the men?”
“Could be, but the town’s so dang full of dudes it’s hard to say for sure.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them?”