“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Or the butt of a revolver?”
“I wouldn’t say that, either. He was hit, an’ laid out senseless; but what it was hit him is more’n I can savvy.”
“The blow was on the head, wasn’t it?”
“Toby sure. It wouldn’t have grabbed his wits if it hadn’t been on the head.”
“Do you think that Nate Dunbar could have ridden up behind Phelps and struck him a blow on the head with a quirt handle?”
“It wasn’t a quirt handle. I’m darned if I know what it was, as I was jest sayin’. And I’ve been tellin’ both Hank and Bloom that Nate Dunbar couldn’t have done it, that Nate would have used the business end of a shooter and not bothered with the thing—whatever it was—that collided with Jake’s head. But they’re set in their notions an’ won’t listen to reason.”
“Dunbar did it!” cried Phelps.
“He shore did!” agreed Bloom; “and Buffalo Bill sent Nate Dunbar after Jake so’t he could do it.”
“Bloom,” said the scout, “you’re a cur dog. As an officer of the law, you should be trying to bring evil-doers to justice and bring peace on the Brazos. But you’re doing neither. All your energy is expended in fomenting trouble and discord. But we’ll settle this matter once and for all. You’ll know, presently, just what happened to Jake. I invite you, and Phelps, and the doctor to ride with me.”