Something hot scalded Buck Bell’s heart as the rider came alongside. Had the sheriff somehow found him out? Buck almost hoped so. But Powell grinned as easy greeting. He was warmly clad in chaps, overshoes and a buffalo coat. The stock of a carbine jutted from his saddle scabbard.
“You look fer all the world like a bull that’s been whipped outa the herd, Bell. Here, see what this’ll do to you.”
He passed over a quart of whisky. They drank together and rode on with the storm.
“Trailin’ that gent that done the robbery, Dick?”
The sheriff grunted into his fur collar.
“Trailin’ hell! Whoever done it didn’t leave a sign. But mark my words, Bell, he’ll give hisself away.”
“How?”
Buck Bell slapped his cold hands against the slicker to beat the blood into circulation.
“Here, take these.” The sheriff pulled a pair of yarn mitts from his pocket. “I brung along an extra pair. The missus knit ’em.”