“What do you mean, you miserable scoundrel?” demanded Joe in so threatening a tone that Tolley fell back against the side of the building again. “What do you mean about Dick Beckworth?”
Hunt had spurred his own horse nearer. He feared Joe would do something rash. The rolling, bloodshot eye of the divekeeper expressed fear of the other; but he was too much enraged to call caution to his aid at that moment.
“I mean what I say,” he rumbled. “You don’t know it, and nobody else in Canyon Pass, I reckon, knows it but me. But I know that derned crazy gal was the cause of Dick Beckworth’s end. And a mean end it was.”
“Dick the Devil, dead?”
“That’s what he is,” said Tolley with less vehemence. He sensed that it would not be wise to be so vociferous with Joe Hurley’s eyes glaring into his own. “Dick come to a mighty mean end. I seen it; but I didn’t know what it meant.”
“It’s more likely you killed him, Tolley—if he’s dead. Or did you have him gunned by Tom Hicks or some other of your friends?” demanded Hurley sharply.
“I never! Poor Dick wasn’t expectin’ nawthin’, I allow. That crazy gal——”
“Be blamed easy how you bring Nell’s name into this,” muttered Hurley, his hand upon the butt of his own gun.
Hunt leaned from his saddle and laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. Hurley did not look back—he knew better, for there was likewise a gun at Boss Tolley’s belt.
“All right, Willie,” the mining man said. “Let’s listen to what this rat has to say. But be blame careful, Tolley, that you don’t raise your voice too high. If you do, I’ll certainly maul you a pile.”