“Somebody killed Ed Corby at the Half-Box R last night.”
Chuckwalla frowned heavily and caressed his mustache.
“Killed Ed Corby?”
“Shot him in the back. Understand that somebody shot through an open door. Anyway, I guess he’s dead. Blackwell brought the news about midnight. He came after the doctor, but he said he was sure Corby was dead.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Ed Corby! I don’t make sense out of that. Corby was a harmless sort of a jigger. Wasn’t very well. I’ll be damned! Probably lay that onto Rance McCoy.”
Hashknife sprawled on a kitchen chair and rolled a cigarette, while Chuckwalla, muttering to himself, went ahead with his breakfast preparations.
“I came to talk with yuh about Rance McCoy,” said Hashknife.
Chuckwalla turned quickly, as though on the defensive.
“What about?”
“I want the truth.”