Marlin City was a sorry-looking place in the gray dawn. One whole side of the main street was a smoldering mass of ruins, while the buildings on the opposite side were badly scorched and warped from the extreme heat. The street was like an ash-heap, and strewn with everything that was possible to salvage from the doomed buildings.
Silent Slade, his face covered with strips of plaster, poked moodily among the blackened ruins of the sheriff’s office, hoping against hope that he would not find anything resembling a human remain. A number of men wandered about the street, talking about the fire, and Slade noticed that some of them were from Silverton.
Ike Welden sat on the sidewalk in front of the Dollar Down, and Silent scowled at him. He blamed Ike for the loss of his horse and wondered how he could prove it sufficiently to take Ike and tie him into a bow-knot. A rider was coming up the street, and Silent recognized him as Meecham, the cashier of the Silverton bank. He dismounted and looked at the results of the fire.
“Pretty bad blaze,” he said to Silent.
“Yeah, pretty bad,” admitted Silent.
“How did it start?”
“With a of a crash.”
Meecham looked curiously at him, but Silent did not feel in any mood to talk about it.
“Did you hear how Mr. Caswell is this morning?”