“Don’t reckon he did.”
“That’s goin’ to be awfully important, Dan, because this man got hisself killed night before last.”
“No! Not killed?”
“Killed dead. Old Aaron says he killed hisself. It’s a lie. He was murdered. I’m aimin’ to find out who did it. And, Dan, when folks git to talkin’ about it down here, I want you to be dumb. That man got a rotten deal. Ain’t nobody but me goin’ to square it. What do you say?”
“I say yes. You ain’t askin’ me nothin’.” He shook his head. “Killed, eh? And him lookin’ to be so handy with a gun. It wa’n’t no fair fight.”
“You said somethin’. I know he was on the North Fork. Went to the Rock from there. But there was two days in between. Do you suppose he was on the Reservation all that time? Can’t you remember who he was goin’ to see over there? Was it Ames, the trader, or the agent? Maybe it was old Thunder Bird!”
“No, Johnny, he didn’t say. But he did tell me he was comin’ back! Said he’d be here Saturday.”
“Saturday? That’s today.” Johnny whistled a surprised note or two. Dan watched him as he walked back and forth, hands thrust deep into his pockets. “Saturday,” the boy muttered. “Comin’ back here. Say, Dan, what would he be comin’ back here for? Was he aimin’ to meet somebody?”
“That might ’a’ been it. Or mail—he might ’a’ been expectin’ a letter.”
“That’s it!” Johnny pounded the counter vehemently. “He was comin’ back for his mail!”