“Hashknife, yo’re funny. If you seen a man shoot another man, you’d prove that somebody else done it.”
“And get a confession from ’em, Sleepy.”
“And they’d be guilty. Go ahead, but don’t ask me to think. All I’m good for is to burn powder, anyway.”
“There ain’t much to think about—yet.”
“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “yo’re young yet.”
The next day Whispering made out a grub list, and Nan rode to town with him in a lumber-wagon. She had talked things over with Len and he had advised her to get some cheques at the bank to pay for the grocery list.
“Even before the will is probated, they’ve got to allow enough money to keep the ranch goin’,” he told her. “It may not be exactly accordin’ to law, but that won’t matter.”
Nan didn’t want to meet Amos Baggs. She hadn’t seen him since she refused to sign the thousand-dollar cheque for him. The Arizona sun had changed her complexion to an olive tan, and she might easily be mistaken for a native of the range.
They were obliged to cross the railroad tracks near the little sun-baked depot, and as a train was approaching, Whispering drew up the team some distance away. The train did not tarry long at Lobo Wells, and as it drew away Whispering whipped up the team.
They jolted across the tracks and headed down the main street. A man dressed in black, one arm in a sling, was going down the wooden sidewalk from the depot, carrying a valise in his free hand, and as they came abreast of him, he turned his head sufficiently for Nan to see his face.