“That’s it—Spanish.”
“Mebbe I see um.” A pause, and then a shrug of the shoulders. “No can tell. Too old. Why you want um? Steal horse?”
Johnny tried hard to conceal his impatience.
“No steal ’em horse,” he answered. Johnny spread his fingers, palms up. “Him friend—un ladrón le ha muerto!”
“Ah, nah—dead?”
For an instant the old chief’s eyes seemed to lose their guile. Johnny’s pulse quickened at what he thought was a note of concern in Thunder Bird’s voice.
“Dead,” he repeated. “Maybe you see him, Thunder Bird?”
“Mebbe so boy see um,” the chief countered. “You come tomorrow, eh?”
Johnny knew it would be useless to urge haste. Tomorrow he would have his answer and not sooner. It would be an answer worth waiting for. If Thunder Bird had known Traynor and had had a hand in his death, then he would deny everything tomorrow. If Traynor had been his friend, the Indian would speak out. If neither of these suppositions were true, it followed that Thunder Bird’s runners would comb the Reservation. If Traynor had set foot in Elk Valley the Piute chief would know by morning.
Johnny went back to the store to eat supper with the trader and to spend the evening in his company. Just before he reached the post he came face to face with Charlie Paul, Kent’s teamster.