Reber looked curiously at her.
“Jack Silver?”
“Yes, I heard his name spoken, Mr. Reber.”
“Jack Silver,” mused Reber. “A handsome devil of a breed, June. He’s tall, graceful—too smart for my men. He comes to Tomahawk. He’s not afraid of me. Half Cheyenne. There are no Cheyennes in the Valley now, June. Uncle Sam keeps ’em on a reservation. But Jack Silver lives back on Trapper Creek, twenty miles southwest of here. We’ve tried to catch him stealing my cattle, but he eludes us.
“McLeese of the Two Bar X and Nort Jackson of the Lightnin’ have trailed him for weeks; and Slim Patterson has tried to trap him, but he’s too clever. He’s got the cunning of the Cheyenne, the brain of a white man.”
June sat in an old rocker, her chin resting on the palm of her right hand, as she thought over Reber’s story. It was the first time she had ever heard the reasons for Buck Priest’s hatred of Park Reber.
“How many head of cattle has Jack Silver stolen from you?” she asked.
Reber shook his head slowly.
“Who knows, June? More than I care to lose.”
He smiled at the thoughtful expression on her face.