‘Where’s Nan?’ he demanded.
‘Here, Dad.’
Nan had stepped from her room and now she crossed the kitchen to her father, who put one arm around her, but still kept his eyes on Hashknife and Sleepy.
‘Who are these men?’ he asked.
‘Friends, Dad; Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens. You have met Mr. Morgan before.’
‘Yeah, I’ve met him. I’ve been around here quite a while, lookin’ ’em over through the windows. I didn’t quite figure out who they were, but it didn’t look to me as though an officer of the law would be washin’ dishes. I had to come back, Nan. What’s the news? What has happened?’
With as few words as possible she told him everything that had happened since he left the house. She told him of the shooting of Noah Evans, the double inquest, and their verdicts. Hashknife watched the face of the old man during her recital, and decided that Paul Lane was a tough old ranger. He did not flinch at the verdict, but his blue eyes clouded a trifle.
He was not a big man, and age had sapped some of his vitality, but he was wiry, keen-eyed, and the hands that gripped the Winchester were muscular and steady.
‘Kinda looks as though they had the dead wood on me and the kid,’ he said bitterly. ‘We been hidin’ out in the brush, wonderin’ what was goin’ on; so I took a chance. We got a look at you fellers to-day and wondered who yuh might be. And we seen Nan come back in that buggy; so I decided that there had been an inquest at Cañonville.’
‘Why don’t the both of yuh sneak down and give up to the sheriff?’ asked Hashknife. ‘Looks like the only way out of it, Lane.’