Gowan gave it a casual glance, and answered almost 66 jeeringly: “Easy enough for him to set it up and plug it––if he didn’t get too far away.”
“His rifle is a thirty-two. This was done by a thirty-eight,” she replied.
“Thirty-eight?” he repeated. “Let’s see.” He took the flask from her, drew a rifle cartridge from his belt, and fitted the steel-jacketed bullet into the clean, small hole. “You’re right, Miss Chuckie. It shore was a thirty-eight.” He turned sharply on Ashton. “Where’d it happen? Who was it?”
“Over on that dry stream,” answered Ashton. “Unfortunately the fellow was too far away for me to be able to describe him.”
“But we think it may have been his guide,” explained the girl.
“Guide?” muttered Gowan, staring intently at Ashton.
“Yes. You see, if he was mean enough to help steal Mr. Ashton’s outfit, he––”
“Shore, I savvy!” exclaimed the puncher. “I’ll rope a couple of fresh hawsses, and go out with Mr. Ashton after the two-legged wolf.”
“That’s like you, Kid! But you must wait at least until you’ve both had dinner. Mr. Ashton, I’m sure, is half starved.”
“Me, too, Miss Chuckie. But you know I’d rather eat a wolf or a rustler or even a daring desperado than sinkers and beans, any day.” 67