“Oh, Ay forgot,” said Oscar, “Ol’ Ben Todd is dead.”
Henry paddled out a little closer. “Ben Todd?” he asked. “You mean to say that Ben Todd is dead?”
“Ay have de opinion of Doctor Bogart”
“What killed him?”
“Buckshot—t’rough a vindow.”
“My goodness! Judge! Oh, Judge! Frijole, saddle our horses! Judge! Wake up! We have a murder!”
Judge mumbled something about not being a Recording Angel, as he struggled into his clothes. Frijole had gone to saddle their two horses.
“Ben Todd vars in his little shack,” said Oscar, “and somebody shoots bockshot t’rough de vindow at him. Ay t’ink he vars dronk, but yust de same, he died.”
“That’s queer!” declared Henry, struggling with his boots.
“Nothing queer about murder,” said Judge. “Sordid, I’d say.”