“She’ll tell you quick enough.” Kent raised his voice to cry out her name.
“No good doin’ that,” Johnny advised. “She ain’t here.”
“I’ll find out whether she is or not. You git your stuff now. Take your presents with you, too.”
Johnny had never been dismissed in this fashion. Tight-lipped, cheeks burning, he shook his head. “No,” he muttered, “I’d not do that.”
“Well, I’ll take care of it, then.”
And he caught up the harmonica and hurled it through the open window. “You git your stuff,” he thundered.
The lust to tear this old man’s body with his hands surged in Johnny Dice. And yet, Molly was his daughter! The thought struck Johnny with a double significance. Jackson Kent had identified the dead man’s treasured keepsake. But why had that man carried Molly Kent’s photograph? Questions began stabbing at Johnny’s brain.
Molly had had nothing to do with the man’s death. Hobe had given the old man an alibi. But there was a draw to this affair which could not be argued into nothingness. Molly was mysteriously away from home; Jackson here when he had left for Winnemucca, and always that picture of the girl in the dead man’s wallet to be explained.
In a sort of daze Johnny got his blankets and other gear and placed them upon his saddle.
Kent had roused Charlie Sam and set him to ringing the ranch-house bell. Only little Hughie answered the bell’s imperative summons.