The cowboy jumped from his weary horse, loosened the cinches to give the animal’s lungs greater freedom, and came into the office to wait for the doctor.
The cowboy was excited, and tramped up and down, rolling a cigarette.
“You’re from Hank Phelps’ ranch?” asked the scout.
“That’s me,” was the answer. “My name’s Quiller, an’ I’ve worked fer Hank for two years. He’s all right, Hank is.”
“How was Jake Phelps hurt?”
“Looks like he’d been hit on the head with a club er somethin’.”
“Then he wasn’t shot?”
“Not as Jeems an’ me could see. But I didn’t tarry long arter we found Jake; I jest hustled right in arter the doc. There was some queer things about Jake’s fix. The feller that swiped the pay-roll money took Jake’s saddle along. What’s this I hear about Jake’s havin’ a row with Nate Dunbar afore leavin’ fer home?”
“They had some words, Quiller,” answered the scout.
“I’m wonderin’—I’m wonderin’——”