“Tharon,” said Billy Brent this day, clanking around the corner of the adobe house, his leather chaps flapping with every step, his yellow hair curling boyishly under his hat-brim. “Tharon, I got bad news for you.”
There was genuine distress in his grey eyes.
“Yes?” asked the mistress of Last’s, straightening up. 55
“Yes, sir, an’ I hate like hell t’ tell it.”
“Out with it, Billy. What’s wrong?”
“Somebody’s dynamited th’ Crystal Spring in th’ Cup Rim.”
“What?”
The word was in italics. Its one syllable told all one might care to know of the importance of Billy’s news.
“Yes. Opened her up fer two square yards. Spread th’ lovely old Crystal all over th’ range. An’ she’s gone, as sure’s shootin’. Nothin’ but a lot o’ wet an’ dryin’ mud to show for her.”