But their efforts to find out anything about the meeting were without result. No one seemed to know anything about it. Terry and Hank had a number of drinks with the bartender, Oscar Link, and the conversation came around to the trouble that Butch and young Marsh had with Cultus Collins.
“I jist looked for that to happen,” lied Oscar. “The minute I see Marsh gettin’ tough with Collins, I says to myself, ‘Oscar, you watch the fun, because this Collins is goin’ to make Marsh swaller his own heels.’”
“You knowed Collins, eh?” queried Hank.
“Me and him are old friends, from Yuma. Knowed each other for years. He said, Oscar, I’m shore glad to see yuh up here,’ and then we went ahead and talked over old times. And lemme tell yuh somethin’, gents; don’t fool with that hombre. He’s jist like a paralytic stroke to anybody foolin’ around.”
“Well, that’s fine!” grunted Terry, reaching for the bottle. “Bad man from Yuma, eh? Hey! What the hell are yuh reachin’ for that bottle for? I’m payin’ for this drink.”
“What’s the business of this here paralysis producin’ person?” asked Hank interestedly.
“That’s Cultus Collin’s own business. You’ve been down around the border, ain’t yuh? And you ain’t heard of Cultus Collins? Well, I dunno what he’s doin’ here, except Harry Kelton said he was lookin’ for a horse that some misguided gent rode north by mistake. It seems that there was a scrap between the border officers and a bunch of smugglers, one officer gettin’ killed in the fracas, and somebody headed north on Collins’s horse. I shore feel sorry for that gent, if Collins finds him.”
“Well, here’s regards,” said Terry, downing his drink. “This is a long ways to come huntin’ a lost horse.”
“There’s the matter of a dead officer,” said Oscar.
“Plenty more officers,” grinned Hank, “but good horses is scarce.”