Beasley shook his head.
“’Tain’t that. That was jest clear shootin’. Though it’s queer you mention that. Say, this racket’s got somethin’ to do with that farm. It’s mighty queer about that farm. That gal’s brought a heap of mischief. She sure is an all-fired Jonah.”
“But what’s she to do wi’ this new racket?” inquired Slaney.
Beasley shook his head.
“You got me beat again. The sheriff’s comin’ right out to that farm, chasin’ some feller for murder. Ther’s the fact—plain fact. He’s comin’ to that farm—which shows that gal is mussed-up with the racket someways. Now I tho’t a heap on this thing. An’ I’m guessin’ this murder must have been done back East. Y’ see that gal comes from back East. ‘Wal, now,’ says I, ‘how do we shape then?’ Why, that gal—that Jonah gal—comes right here an’ locates some feller who’s done murder back East. Who is it? I gone over every feller in this yer camp, an’ ’most all are pretty clear accounted for. Then from what I hear the sheriff’s posse is to work the hills. Who is ther’ in the hills?”
Beasley paused for effect. His purpose was rapidly becoming evident. He glanced over the faces about him, and knew that the same thought was in each mind.
He laughed as though an absurd thought had passed through his mind.
“Course,” he exclaimed, “it’s durned ridic’lous. Ther’s two fellers we know livin’ in the hills. Jest two. Ther’s Buck an’—the Padre. Buck’s bin around this creek ever since he was raised. I ain’t no use for Buck. He’s kind o’ white livered, but he’s a straight citizen. Then the Padre,” he laughed again, “he’s too good. Say, he’s next best to a passon. So it can’t be him.”
He waited for concurrence, and it came at once.