There could be no doubt of it. Johnny was satisfied that the chief was pointing to Gallup as the murderer of Crosbie Traynor. But the Indian had not made a single statement that could be used as evidence to convict the coroner. His words were all innuendo. A man had to make his own conclusions.
Johnny knew from experience that threats were idle with Thunder Bird. He would talk when it pleased him to do so, and not before. Jumping to the ground he said sharply:
“Chief, you take the team; you go Reservation. I watch Gallup. Best you no come back. If you see Madeiras tell him I want him come quick. You fan it now if you want to get back before daylight.”
Johnny trudged to town as the chief drove away. He felt defeated, held off when success was almost within his grasp. Perhaps the wish was father to the thought, but it was easy for him to believe that Gallup had killed Traynor. He reconstructed the happenings of that tragic night on which they had found the man’s body. He even recalled some of Gallup’s conversation. Viewed, as the boy was doing now, it was incriminating.
But what of Kent? The evidence had pointed to him from the start. There were certain facts which were unalterable even now, but if Traynor had been killed in the manner Johnny believed, Kent could not have done it. Hobe had seen him playing cards with Doc Ritter at the very time the crime must have been committed.
“And yet,” the boy thought, “Gallup’s got somethin’ on Kent. Absolutely yes!—and he’s got him hard. Every guess I’ve got is weak some place, even the one about the Indian. If the chief was Traynor’s friend, and Traynor was tryin’ to square up an old debt, why did Thunder Bird let the man come into the Rock? The Indian must have known that Kent was shippin’ from here. And if he didn’t he knew damn well that Gallup was here.
“Mebbe there was somebody else, too; but the chief would have knowed. Ain’t likely he’d ’a’ sent a friend up against a stacked deck. And now that old devil is out to git Gallup. Sure as he does I’m licked, I’m a bust—a relic. On circumstantial evidence I could send two or three men to jail, but on the real goods I couldn’t indict a jackass.”
It was after midnight when Johnny got back to the hotel. Scanlon’s game was still active. Johnny recognized his fellow players—the two Faulkner brothers and Tris Bowles. The Faulkners had been freighting supplies to the Agency.
“Say, Charlie,” Johnny asked the elder of the two, “you didn’t come in from the Valley today, did yuh?”
“Yeah. Got in ’bout nine o’clock.”