The man in front was the deputy sheriff of the county; his companion was a stranger.
“That was a horrible mess you stumbled on over on Deer Creek,” the deputy remarked.
“It certainly was. Have any arrests been made?”
“Not yet, but we’re on a clew. This is Marshal Haines, of Dallas, Mr. Cavanagh,” pursued the deputy. The two men nodded in token of the introduction, and the deputy went on: “You remember that old cuss that used to work for Gregg?”
Again Cavanagh nodded.
“Well, that chap is wanted by the Texas authorities. Mr. Haines, here, wants to see him mighty bad. He’s an escaped convict with a bad record.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Cavanagh. “I thought he seemed a bit gun-shy.”
“The last seen of him was when Sam Gregg sent him up to herd sheep. I think he was mixed up in that killing, myself—him and Ballard—and we’re going up to get some track of him. Didn’t turn up at your station, did he?”
“Yes, he came by some days ago, on his way, so he said, to relieve that sick Basque, Ambro. I went up a couple of days ago, and found the Basque dead and the old man gone. I buried the herder the best I could, and I’m on my way down to report the case.”
The deputy mused: “He may be hanging ’round some of the lumber-camps. I reckon we had better go up and look the ground over, anyhow. We might just chance to overhaul him.”