Silent nodded. “Same kind. I never saw Allen before. He’s a pal of the skunk who—he’s a pal of Greyhound’s. This is a German gun.”
“We’ve seen one like it before,” Roy declared. “Do you mean to say that man—and the others—are German?”
“Not any,” Silent replied. His face gradually resumed its normal coloring. “They got these here weapons from a mail-order concern. They ain’t registered. When you use guns for killin’,” he said in a low voice, “it’s better to get ’em through the mail instead of over a counter.”
“Killin’!” Gus exclaimed. “Did that guy Allen kill somebody?”
“It seems to be a habit,” Silent went on, “for a guy with this kind of a gun to use it on humans. A habit! Well, boys—” he drew a deep breath—“Reckon I’ve finished minin’ for a while. Now let’s get those broncs. I can see one of ’em—yep, the other, too—from here.” He pointed. “Over by that bush. They got together.”
“You mean you want to go after that fellow—after Allen?” Roy asked.
“That’s what. Sorry to leave you, but—”
“You’re not leaving us,” Teddy stated distinctly.
“Huh?” and Silent looked up.
“We’re coming with you. There’s a little matter we have to settle with certain parties—who sport guns like this. Roy, I reckon I’m speaking for you, too?”