“Not necessary. Everybody here knows who owns the knife—or rather who did own it. It’s mine now, unless someone claims it. That all right with you, Dutch?”
The killer said nothing, but he said it with bloodshot, vindictive eyes—eyes in which hate and fear and cunning and the lust to kill struggled for victory.
Hugh turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his footsteps sharp and ringing. Not once did he look back to see whether the murderer he had discredited would shoot him in the back.
Yet he was glad when he was out of range. Experiments in the psychology of a killer might easily be carried too far.
CHAPTER XX
“LITTLE VICKY”
Jim Budd had a dozen reasons to offer why there must be gold in Bald Knob. Like many others, he was letting his hopes influence his judgment.
When he had finished his argument Hugh grinned. “May be here. May not. A fifty to one bet I’d call it, us on the short end. But that’s mining. No can tell. Might as well stick up our notice here as anywhere. What say, Dan?”
Byers said, “Suits me.”
“What about this fellow Singlefoot Bill who took up the claims originally—sure he’s outa the country and won’t make a kick?”