Brick’s eyes shifted to Leach’s hands, which were turned away, as if Leach were trying to conceal them. But he could not conceal the holster, on which was the leaping-frog design in silver. Perhaps it was the symbol of a swift draw.
Leach’s face had gone white, his jaw tensed. Hank Stagg’s sobs were the only audible noise, except the heavy breathing of the crowd.
“Tell us about it, buddy,” said Brick softly. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt yuh.”
“He’s got warts on his hands,” repeated the little fellow. “The man had ’em—the man who wore the cloth over his face—and he had the frog on his holster. Frogs make warts, don’tcha know it? I don’t like warts—and he’s got ’em.”
The little fellow, in spite of his treatment, had seen the warty hands and the leaping frog, and they had impressed him so strongly that there was no chance of a mistake.
“Good boy,” breathed Brick, and then a little louder, “Bartender, will yuh please put this boy on yore side of the bar?”
The frightened drink-dispenser shuffled down behind Brick, lifted the youngster down and went quickly back to the farther end of the bar. Leach laughed. Somewhere a handful of poker-chips slid from a table and rattled to the floor.
“What’s it all about, anyway?” demanded Leach.
Brick leaned back against the bar. His face was drawn, blue, in that weak light, and he seemed tired. But those who knew him well, knew that he was dangerous now. The light-hearted, devil-may-care Brick Davidson was gone, and in his place was the sheriff of Sun Dog, a man-hunter—not a detective.
“It took quite a while,” Brick’s voice was pitched low, but plainly audible to every one in the room. “Sometimes things take a long time to work out. A lot of yuh don’t know that Baldy Malloy was shot through the heart before he went over the grade. I knew it, Doctor Meyers knew it, and Grant and Santel knew it. I reckon it’s been kept sort of a secret.