Lee Virginia was in the kitchen superintending the service when one of the waiters came in, breathless with excitement. “Ross Cavanagh has shot Joe Gregg for killing sheep!”
Lee faced her with blanched face. “Who told you so?”
“They’re all talking about it out there. Gee! but they’re hot. Some of ’em want to lynch him.”
Lee hurried out into the dining-room, which was crowded with men and voicing deep excitement. Anger was in the air—a stormy rage, perceptible as a hot blast; and as she passed one table after another she heard ugly phrases applied to Cavanagh.
A half-dozen men were standing before the counter talking with Lize, but Lee pushed in to inquire with white, inquiring face: “What is it all about? What has happened?”
“Nothing much,” Lize replied, contemptuously, “but you’d think a horse had been stole. Ross has nipped Joe Gregg and one of his herders for killing mountain-sheep.”
“Do you mean he shot them?”
“Yes; he took their heads.”
Lee stood aghast. “What do you mean? Whose heads?”
Lize laughed. “The sheeps’ heads. Oh, don’t be scared, no one is hurt yet!”