“Who said a thing like that?” Connie asked sharply.
“Why, it’s common talk. If you weren’t so blind you could see for yourself that he’s not a square shooter.”
“You don’t really have any evidence against him?”
“I can’t prove that he’s wanted by the law—no. But I do know he’s no hand for us. Why, today, he was supposed to be wrangling steers, and he walked off from the job.”
“It was lucky for me that he did,” Connie said ruefully. “But I think I’ll have a talk with him.”
“Don’t expect him to break down and tell you his life history,” Blakeman said with a trace of sarcasm. “He won’t do it. The only thing I’d tell him would be to get out.”
Connie did not answer. After the foreman had gone to the barn she stood by the corrals lost in thought. She did not know what she could say to Jim Barrows. Perhaps she might return the handkerchief and ask him to explain the initials.
Connie had seen the man disappear into the bunk house and she knew that the other cowboys were busy elsewhere. This would be her opportunity to talk with him alone.
She walked slowly toward the bunk house, dreading the interview. The door was half ajar.
As Connie paused, hesitating to rap, she saw Jim Barrows move across the room. He had not heard her approach. There was something about his manner which struck Connie as odd. Instead of rapping on the door, she waited and watched.