“You don’t know he killed your brother. Someone else may have done it. And it may have been done in self defence,” the Arkansas girl said to Boone in a voice so low and reluctant that it appeared the words were wrung from her by torture.
“Think I’m a buzzard head? Why for did he run away? Why did he jump for the sandhills soon as the word came to arrest him?” He snapped together his straight, thin-lipped mouth, much as a trap closes on its prey.
A heavy weight hurtled against the door and shook it to the hinges. Melissy had been edging to the right. Now with a twist of her lissom body she had slipped past the furious man and turned the key.
Jack Flatray came into the room. His glance swept the young women and fastened on the man. 188 In the crossed eyes of the two was the thrust of rapiers, the grinding of steel on steel, that deadly searching for weakness in the other that duelists employ.
The deputy spoke in a low soft drawl. “Mornin’, Boone. Holding an executive session, are you?”
The lids of the detective narrowed to slits. From the first there had been no pretense of friendship between these two. There are men who have only to look once at each other to know they will be foes. It had been that way with them. Causes of antagonism had arisen quickly enough. Both dominant personalities, they had waged silent unspoken warfare for the leadership of the range. Later over the favor of Melissy Lee this had grown more intense, still without having ever been put into words. Now they were face to face, masks off.
“Why yes, until you butted in, Mr. Sheriff.”
“This isn’t my busy day. I thought I’d just drop in to the meeting.”
“You’ve made a mistake. We’re not holding a cattle rustlers’ convention.”
“There are so many ladies present I can’t hear you, but maybe if you said it outside I could,” the deputy suggested gently, a gleam of steely anger in his eyes.