“Somebody dynamited the office,” declared Silent.
His mind was functioning perfectly again, and he remembered the man he had seen leaving the rear of the office.
“Do you think it was done on purpose?” queried Mrs. Wesson.
“Yes’m, I sure do. Brick and Harp never kept any dynamite in the office.”
“But why would any one do a thing like that?” asked Miss Miller. “Surely no one would do it.”
“Wouldn’t they?” Silent laughed hoarsely and began feeling of his face. “By grab, I come danged near bein’ included.”
His face was badly skinned. In fact, one eyebrow was almost obliterated, his nose flattened, lips swollen.
“I reckon the door patted me in the face and I slept fifteen minutes,” he said, trying to grin. “I’m full of splinters, that’s a cinch.”
“Well, who would do it?” demanded Mrs. Wesson hotly.
“If I knowed, I’d sure tan his hide and make me a new latigo. Somebody stole my horse, too. I tell yuh this country is gettin’ ornery, Mrs. Wesson. What this country needs is a good old wholesale killin’. And—” Silent pointed toward the flames—“if old Brick ain’t in there, I’ve got a danged good hunch that there will be.”