“It sure was,” agreed Bill Grant. “My neck is still hot, and it was mostly all over when I got here. I’ll buy a drink.”
As they started toward the saloon, Silent stepped in beside Brick and whispered—
“There’s a saddle at the hitch-rack with a bullet-hole in the cantle.”
“Who owns it?” asked Brick.
“Meecham, the Silverton bank cashier, rode in on it a while ago.”
“Sure it’s a bullet-hole, Silent?”
“Y’betcha.”
Brick squinted thoughtfully, as they lined up at the bar. Meecham was sitting at a card-table, reading a paper, paying no attention to any one. Leach and Cale Wesson were standing near the front of the room, talking about the fire, and, near the rear, Ike Welden and Slim Hunter were playing a listless game of pool.
The bartender greeted Brick effusively and insisted that the drinks were “on the house.”
“I was afraid yuh died in that fire, Brick. By golly, I’m sure glad to see yuh. And old Harp, too.”