"Well, Fade's played his stack, and lost. Jack was sure in the game, but how far—I dunno. Reckon that's got anything to do with stampedin' your sheep?" asked Wingle, turning to Loring.
Loring's deep-set eyes flashed. "Fernando reported that a Concho rider done the job. He didn't say who done it."
"Didn't, eh? And did Fernando say anything about doin' a job himself?" asked Shoop.
"If you're tryin' to hang this onto any of my herders, you're ridin' on the wrong side of the river. I reckon you won't have to look far for the gun that got him." And Loring gestured toward the body.
Hi Wingle stooped and pulled Fadeaway's gun from its holster. He spun the cylinder, swung it out, and invited general inspection. "Fade never had a chance," he said, lowering the gun. "They's six pills in her yet. You got to show me he wasn't plugged from behind a rock or them bushes." And Wingle pointed toward the cottonwoods.
One of the men rode down the cañon, searching for tracks. Chance, following, circled the bushes, and suddenly set off toward the north.
Sundown, who had been watching him, dismounted his horse. "Chance, there, mebby he's found somethin'."
"Well, he's your dog. Go ahead if you like. Mebby Chance struck a scent."
"Coyote or lion," said Wingle. "They ain't no trail down them rocks."
Sundown, following Chance, disappeared in the cañon. The men covered Fadeaway's body with a slicker and weighted it with stones. Then they sent a puncher to Antelope to notify the sheriff.