Fyles’s remarks had no question in them. But he intended them to elicit a response. Charlie appeared to have nothing to conceal.
“Well, of a sort, I’d say,” he replied. “You see, this was King Fisher’s corral. There’s others around the valley, though I don’t know just where. King Fisher reigned nearly twenty years ago. He lived in the building the folks in Rocky Springs use as a Meeting House. He was pretty tough. One of the worst badmen ever hit this part. Had a signboard set up on the trail down from the prairie. He wrote it. ‘This is King Fisher’s trail, take any other old trail.’ I believe most folks used to take ‘any other old trail.’ There was one feller didn’t though. And that was the end of King Fisher’s reign. These secret corrals have always been used by toughs.”
Fyles was smiling.
“Yes.”
Charlie laughed and pointed at the hut beyond the corral.
“I’d awfully like to know some of the games that went on in there. Birds and things nest in its roof now. I guess they didn’t come within a mile of it one time. They say King Fisher was mad—blood mad. If that’s so, I daresay this place could tell a few yarns.”
Again came Fyles’s monosyllabic agreement.
Charlie turned to his wagon and went on with his greasing. And while he worked and listened to the other’s talk, the memory of having seen him with Kate gathered stormily in his mind. But he still smiled when he looked up. He still replied in the light-hearted fashion in which he had accepted the police officer’s coming. He was perfectly aware of the reason of the man’s presence there. And, equally, he was indifferent to it.
“Where are you haying now?” Fyles inquired presently.
Charlie answered without turning from his work.