“The idea is,” said Cultus slowly, “that we’re goin’ to search this ranch-house, Rawls.”
Rawls’s eyes twitched, but his face registered no change.
“Yeah?” he said evenly. “What the hell do you expect to find?”
Cultus laughed softly, confidently.
“Yo’re scared of what we’ll find, Rawls. They left you here to watch the place. One of yuh had to stay, yuh know. You couldn’t trust the Chinaman to do the job.”
“Oh, I don’t know what yo’re talkin’ about. Sheriff, what’s the matter with this man? Is he crazy?”
Bad News stared blankly, unable truthfully to answer the question.
“We’ll go upstairs first,” said Cultus evenly.
“Suit yourself,” rasped the cowboy.
He stepped along the table as though to lead the way upstairs, but his right hand swept aside the crumpled serape and he whirled with a Colt six-shooter in his right hand, whirled and jerked back against the table from the shock of Cultus’s bullet, while the windows of the house jangled from the concussion of the big gun.