CHAPTER XII—TOLLEY’S TALE
Hunt had a feeling that he was present at one of those tense scenes of a Western cinema drama, where the heroic gunman holds the villain under the muzzle of his lethal weapon.
He might have leaned from his horse again and plucked both Joe Hurley’s gun and that of the divekeeper from their holsters. But he thought twice about that. Neither of the men was in the mood to brook interference. Besides, the parson was keenly alive to the mystery manifested in Tolley’s words regarding Nell Blossom and the man called Dick the Devil.
Nobody else was near enough to have overheard what passed between Tolley and Joe Hurley. None of the other Passonians, amused by Nell’s wild escapade, drew nearer, and Betty had ridden on to the hotel, refusing to betray the least interest in such a rude scene.
“Speak up, Tolley!” commanded Hurley again. “You’ve been telling us Dick Beckworth went to Denver to deal faro at a gambling house there. Now you come out with such a thing as this—mixing Nell’s name up in some blamed lie about Dick’s being killed.”
“He was killed. It was murder—or mighty close to it. And that gal——”
He halted again. There was something in Joe Hurley’s eyes that stopped him.
“Suppose you start this thing right,” said the mine owner more quietly. “I understand Dick Beckworth left town the morning old Steve and Andy McCann broke out, the same as usual, this spring?”
“And the same morning that gal left me and the Grub Stake flat, and went kitin’ off,” retorted Tolley.
“Well, let’s hear the particulars.”