“Oh, I dunno. You know Billy DuMond is dead, don’tcha, Chuckwalla?”
“Heard he was. That ain’t nothin’ to tear a shirt over. This country would ’a’ been better off if DuMond had been strangled in infancy. Blame Rance for it, don’tcha? Sure, yuh would.”
Chuckwalla glared indignantly and backed to the door.
“Where are yuh goin’?” asked Slim.
“To hunt for Rance McCoy. Somebody’s got to find him—and the sheriff’s office is full of incompetent chair-warmers.”
“Where are yuh goin’ to look?” asked Chuck.
“That’s none of yore business.”
He went up the sidewalk, tramping heavily, his spurs rasping on the worn boards. Slim shrugged his shoulders wearily and leaned back in his chair.
“Now, what do yuh think, Hashknife?”
“The old boy seemed very emphatic, Slim.”