Chuckwalla Ike sloshed a shirt up and down in a pan of soapy water and glared at Rance McCoy, who was tilted back against the kitchen wall, his heels hooked over the rung of a chair.
Rance made no reply to Chuckwalla’s outburst, and it made Chuckwalla mad to be ignored. He yanked viciously on one side of his long mustache with a soapy finger and thumb, which caused the mustache to curl up in a dripping ringlet.
“Why in hell don’tcha try to find out where yore horse and saddle is?” demanded Chuckwalla. “Don’tcha care? Is the Circle Spade so dam’ rich that yuh can lose a horse and saddle every once in a while and not miss it?”
The old man continued his thoughtful scrutiny of the old kitchen floor, ignoring Chuckwalla’s outburst. Finally he lifted his head and looked at Chuckwalla, who was wringing the shirt.
“I heard somethin’ about that horse,” he said slowly.
“Yuh did, eh?”
“Uh-huh. I reckon me and you are about the only folks around here that don’t know it. Jim Langley talked to me today about it.”
Chuckwalla hung the shirt over the back of a chair and seated himself in the chair, facing Rance.
“Yea-a-ah?” he queried drawlingly. “And now I’m the only one that don’t know. Jist about what are you talkin’ about, Rance?”
“That holdup, Chuckwalla. Jist outside the railroad fence they found my horse and saddle the mornin’ of the robbery. Horse had been shot. Yuh see, the messenger fired several shots.”