Haines waited to hear no more. He even forgot to ask for the Barry mail, swung into his saddle, and rode with red spurs back to the cabin in the mountains. There he drew Buck Daniels aside, and they walked among the rocks while Haines told his story. When it was ended they sat on adjoining boulders and chucked pebbles aimlessly into the emptiness beyond the cliff.
“Maybe,” said Buck suddenly, “it wasn't Dan at all. He sure wouldn't be ridin' with no crowd of gents like that.”
“A fool like that store-keeper could make a crowd of Indians out of one papoose,” answered Haines. “It was Dan. Who else would be traipsing around with a dog that looks like a wolf—and hunts men?”
“I remember when Dan cornered Jim Silent in that cabin, and all Jim's gang was with him. Black Bart—”
“Buck,” cut in Haines, “you've remembered plenty.”
After a moment: “When are you going in to break the news to Kate?”
Buck Daniels regarded him with angry astonishment.
“Me?” he cried. “I'd sooner cut my tongue out!” He drew a great breath. “I feel like—like Dan was dead!”
“The best thing for Kate if he were.”
“That's a queer thing to say, Lee. The meat would be rotted off your bones six years ago in Elkhead if it hadn't been for Whistlin' Dan.”