With this Beasley went back to the saloon, where his dinner was served him in the bar. His bartender was taking an afternoon off. It was a thoughtful meal. The man ate noisily with the aid of both knife and fork. He had acquired all the habits of the class he had so long mixed with. Nor was it until his plate of meat and canned vegetables had nearly disappeared that light began to creep into his clouded brain.
He remembered that Joan had refurnished the farm. Why? Because some one from the East, no doubt, was coming to stay with her. Who? Mother? Aunt? Cousin? Female anyway. Female arrives. Queer-looking female. Goes to farm. Stays one night. Comes looking for sheriff next morning. A case of murder. No murder been done around here. Where? East? Yes. Then there’s some one here she’s found—or she knows is here—and he’s wanted for murder. Who?
At this point Beasley grinned. How many might there not be on Yellow Creek who could be so charged?
But his shrewd mind was very quick. This woman had not been into camp until she visited him. Where had she been? In the hills—coming from Crowsfoot. Still she might have been aware of the presence of her man before she came—through Joan.
For a moment he was disappointed.
But it was only for a moment. He quickly brightened up. A new idea had occurred to him which narrowed his field of possibilities. This woman was educated, she belonged to a class he had once known himself. She would know nothing of the riffraff of this camp. It must be somebody of the same class, or near it, somebody of education——He drew a sharp breath, and his wicked eyes lit.
The wildest, the most impossible thought had occurred to him. He pondered long upon the passage of the trail from Crowsfoot to the farm. He remembered how she did not desire the “gossip” to travel—especially to the hills.
Suddenly he hailed his Chinese cook and flung his knife and fork down upon his plate. In his elation he forgot the heat, the sticky flies. He forgot his usual custom of abstention during the day. He poured himself out a long drink of really good whisky, which he gulped down, smacking his lips with appreciation before flinging his customary curse at the head of his Mongolian servitor.
He had never had such a morning in his life.