“I’ll fix your arm,” the doctor said to Alden.
“I never done nothin’,” wailed Alden. “He shot me, and I never done nothin’, Doc. I can prove I never done nothin’, I tell yuh.”
“You liar!”
It was a feminine voice, and they turned to see Della. Harry had hold of one of her arms, and she braced the other hand against Oscar, the bartender, whose face was a sickly white.
“You liar,” she repeated, and Alden slumped in his chair.
“You killed Ben Kelton,” she said evenly. “You threw the blame on Blaze Nolan, and your father paid me to keep away from here. Blaze Nolan never knew me well enough to speak to me, and”—her lips curled sarcastically—“when a man in a place as small as this don’t know dance-hall girls well enough to speak to them, he sure keeps away from them.
“No, you never done anything, eh? You and Terry Ione tried to kill Collins and the Kelton girl in Padre Canyon. I suppose that isn’t anything, eh? I suppose you didn’t have any hand in killing the sheriff.”
“I didn’t,” whined Alden. “That was Mac Rawls and Terry.”
“I guess that’s all,” said Della wearily. “I didn’t know for sure who killed Buck Gillis, but now we know.”
Cultus stepped around in front of Kendall Marsh, who seemed dazed over the whole thing. He looked up at Cultus foolishly.