But Jack was looking for this, and his bullet crashed into the stranger’s arm between elbow and wrist, leaving the man staring up at him, unable to do more than mouth a curse.
Molly had been leaning back against the side of the house, her face white with fright, but now she sped into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. The stranger got to his feet, holding his arm with his left hand, and looked around.
“Yo’re from the sheep outfits, ain’t yuh?” asked Jack.
“That’s my business.” The stranger was not a bit meek.
“It’s a —— of a business,” observed Jack. “Who was that letter from?”
“Mebbe yuh think yuh can find out, eh?”
“All right. Now you mosey back where yuh came from, sabe? If I ever catch yuh around here again, I’ll not shoot at yore arm. Now vamoose pronto.”
The man turned and went swiftly back past the corral, where he disappeared through the brush. A few moments later he came out on to the side of a hill, where he lost no time in putting distance between himself and the ranch.
Jack watched him disappear and went to the kitchen door. It was locked. For a while he stood there, wondering what to do. He had lost the piece he had torn from the corner of the letter, but now he found it on the ground.
It had torn diagonally across the corner, and on it were only three words, written in lead-pencil: