“Not one of yore men,” said Hashknife calmly. “That would be too easy, Ed.”
Slim De Larimore did not move. Curt and Steil were close together at Slim’s left, with Allison behind them. Slim’s eyes shifted sidewise, as if looking for a way out, but he did not even move his feet. They thought Hashknife had either been killed or crippled.
“Ed?” said Jack Hartwell in a strained voice. “Hartley, did yuh call him Ed?”
“That’s his name,” said Hashknife evenly. “Ed Larrimer. I dunno where he got the De Larimore. Mebbe he got it like he usually got his horses, cows and saddles.”
“What do you mean?” breathed the owner of the Turkey Track.
“Just what I said, Larrimer. Long time I no see yuh, eh? I seen Curt and Lee Steil before. They call him ‘Casey’ Steil, I hear. Well, a feller has a right to his name, I reckon. But names don’t mean nothin’, except that a feller by the name of Preston knew you as ‘Ed’. You killed him, but yuh didn’t kill him quick enough.
“Always be sure that yore man is dead, Larrimer. Dead men tell no tales. And yuh didn’t change yore name enough. Larimore and Larrimer ain’t so different. And somebody told me what yuh looked like, acted like, and they said yuh was from Texas.”
“—— you, what do yuh mean?” gritted Larrimer. “My name is De Larimore, and I own this ranch. I can prove it ——”
“You don’t need to, Ed. Anyway, it’s too late for proofs. We are engaged with somethin’ kinda interestin’ now, and we don’t care what yore name is nor whether yuh own the Turkey Track, or not. What I want to know right now is this: Where is Jack Hartwell’s wife?”
Larrimer’s elbows jerked slightly and he twisted heavily on one heel, as if bracing himself.