Thornton hesitated.
He must not forget that Comstock was an officer—that even now he was upon a state errand—that it was his duty to bring such men as Jimmie Clayton to justice. He must not forget that Clayton had been a friend to him—or, at least, that he had credited the crook with a feeling of friendship and the care of a friend.
True, Comstock, who seemed to know everything, had said in a matter-of-fact way that it had been Jimmie Clayton who had shot him that night between Juarez and El Paso. But nothing was proven. He had long thought of Clayton as a man to whom he owed a debt of gratitude, and now with the man, hunted as he was, his sympathy naturally went out to him, evil-doer as he knew him to be.
Evidently Comstock read what was passing in the cowboy's mind.
"I'm not asking you to squeal on him, Buck," he said quietly. "Look here, I could have taken him in last night if I had wanted to. I could have got him a week ago if I had wanted him. But I didn't want him—I don't want him now. I'm hunting bigger game."
Still Thornton hesitated, but now his hesitation was brief. He swung his horse around toward the cabin.
"Let's ride back, Comstock," he said shortly. "I want a good long talk with you."
Not another word about the matter did either man say as they unsaddled or as they went up the knoll to the cabin. Not a word until the fragrance of boiling coffee and frying bacon went out to mingle with the freshness of the new day. Then as they sat at table and Comstock began to soak the biscuits Thornton had made in the bacon gravy, they looked at each other, and their eyes were alike grave and equally stern.
"First thing," began Comstock, "let me finish my news. Charley Bedloe was murdered last night."
"I know."