“That’s a good job for you,” declared Sam Leach.
“Y’betcha. There’s a lot of ’em that need lookin’ after, Leach. I don’t want to be personal, but I will say that there’s a lot of loose cinches in this country, and if they ain’t tightened up pretty quick—somebody’s saddle is goin’ to turn.”
“Meaning what?” queried Leach.
Brick swung his horse around and headed for the gate, without answering Leach’s question. In fact, he couldn’t have answered it. He disliked Leach, and he knew that such a statement would rankle in Leach’s bosom for quite a while.
That someone had mistaken Santel for him—Brick—was almost a certainty, Brick decided. Just what Santel was doing in that part of the hills, he had no idea. Brick had left the Red Hill mine and had ridden up the hog-back in full view of the mine. It was possible that Mostano had seen him and had tried to kill him.
It was not a place frequented by cowboys, and it would have been easy for Mostano to mistake Santel for Brick, as they were both mounted on sorrel horses. At any rate, thought Brick, Joe Mostano was worth watching.
Santel’s statement regarding the county commissioners set Brick to thinking. Just what would it make them sorry for him to find out, he wondered? Miss Miller had recognized Santel as being a bad man—a gun-fighter. According to her, Santel had been a hired gun-man for the sheep interests, and had been suspected of murdering two cowpunchers in Idaho.
Brick was willing to discount the murder statement. He knew that, under those circumstances, an ordinary killing would be termed murder. Santel did not look like a murderer, but he did look like a gun-man, whose gun might be for rent.
“Well,” Brick resolved, “I’m not goin’ to worry about Santel. Mebbe between us we can kinda launder old Sun Dog and hang her out to dry in the sun. Anyway, somebody has fired the first gun of the battle—and all they got was a horse.”