“Who is this Hugh McClintock, anyhow?” asked a citizen newly arrived from Ohio. “Anybody know anything about him?”
Irish Tom Carberry grinned. He was at the post office getting his mail when the innocent question drifted to him. He looked at the stranger. “Sam Dutch knows him. So do I. We know him domn well.”
He gave no further information, but after he had gone another former resident of Aurora whispered advice to the Ohioan. “Better not be so curious in public, friend.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s liable to be a killin’ before night. Don’t you see McClintock has served notice on Dutch that he can’t be chief of Piodie while he’s here? It’s up to Sam to make good or shut up.”
“All I asked was——”
“We done heard what you asked. It ain’t etiquette in Nevada to ask questions unless you aim to take a hand in the play. You ain’t declarin’ yoreself in, are you?”
“Bet your boots I’m not. None of my business.”
“You said something that time.” The former Aurora man walked away.
The man from the Western Reserve looked after him resentfully. “This is the darndest place. I ask a question, and you’d think I’d made a break of some kind. Is there any harm in what I said? I leave it to any of you. Is there?” he asked querulously.