“Ain’t yore gun, is it?” old Dan questioned. “Leastways, it wa’n’t you had it in here to be fixed.”
“No. I just came by the gun accidental-like. I’m right interested in the man what owned it, though. Suppose you got his name in your books.”
“Umph—umph!” Dan grunted. “Ain’t, neither. I ’member he waited here while I put in the pin. Had quite a talk.”
Johnny’s face fell. Old Dan’s words had dropped him from the clouds to the bottomless pit. What mattered it that he had traced the dead man’s movements to Secor’s shop? His surmising was proved correct, but the murdered man’s identity remained a mystery, and that had to be solved before he could proceed with any assurance of success. Johnny cursed in his chagrin. Could you find two men in a hundred who would have a gun repaired while they waited? Of course not! It was just a trick of fate’s to thwart him. It wouldn’t happen so again in a thousand years.
“You seem right put out,” Dan rejoined. “Man ain’t done nothin’?”
“Not a thing. Say, you mind tellin’ me what you two talked about?”
“Don’t know as I do. Wa’n’t nothin’ puss’nal; ’twas mostly cattle talk, him askin’ after the brands folks was runnin’ along the river. You know, light talk—two old men.”
The old gunsmith took off his glasses and gazed vacantly into space, as if beholding some pleasant vista of almost forgotten years. “Yes,” he murmured, “two old men. Him and me had been in Santa Fe ’bout the same time.” Dan clucked his lips at the memory. “Them was the days; riotin’ ever’ night, hell poppin’ over in the Tonto, Injuns puttin’ on the paint every now and then.”
The old man paused abruptly. Then:
“Say, Johnny!” he exclaimed. “Come to think on it, your man did say somethin’ puss’nal. Asked me what folks said of old Kent’s daughter.”