“Yeah. Prob’ly thought he was dead.”
“Hm-m-m. I wonder if Hartley has any idea who done it, Ben?”
“I asked Stevens the same question, and he said he didn’t. I told Hartley I was goin’ to try and find out who shot him, and he said he’d be much obliged if I could. Sometimes he makes me so damn mad, with his grinnin’—but yuh can’t help likin’ him, Len. And he ain’t a man I’d choose for a fight.
“Packs his gun pretty low,” nodded Len, “and them eyes of his are pretty steady, even when he grins with his mouth.”
“How’s the boy, Len?”
“Fine.”
“Well, I’ll be driftin’ back. Sorry I bothered Miss Singer, Len; but this deal is gittin’ me up in the air.”
“That’s all right, Ben.”
Len Ayres watched him ride away, and then went back into the house. Nan was curled up on the couch.
“Where is the sheriff?” she asked.