“I don’t either, Ayres; but it proves somethin’. Either you killed Charley Prentice, or the man who did kill him wanted the kid and the squaw to hear who was doin’ the shootin’. And another thing—if Prentice hadn’t died right away, he could have sworn who shot him.”
“Yeah, that’s true. If the sheriff knew what I’ve told you, he’d jail me too quick, Hartley.”
“Well, he won’t know it from me. But there’s another question, Ayres. This is pretty danged personal, but I mean it for yore own good. Was yore wife friendly with Prentice before you was arrested?”
Len shifted his position, but did not answer. He got to his feet and walked back to the door, where he leaned out and listened.
“I thought I heard somebody,” he said, as he came back. “I guess it was the dog. I don’t know how to answer yore question, Hartley. She had known Prentice a long time. We had a house in Lobo Wells, yuh know. My wife wasn’t the kind who liked to live out on a ranch. I’ll tell yuh the honest facts of the case; we didn’t get along so good. Mebby I was to blame. I worked hard to get a start, but she didn’t appreciate it, I guess.”
“What kind of a person was Harmony Singer?” asked Hashknife, going off on another tack.
“The best on earth, Hartley.”
“I’ve heard he was.”
“He stuck to me,” said Len softly, and added: “Like a father.”
“Did you know this niece of his before yuh came back?”