She admitted to herself that this clear-eyed Southerner did not look like an assassin. Life in the open had made her a judge of such men as she had been accustomed to meet, but for days she had been telling herself she could no longer trust her judgment. Her best friend was a rustler. By a woman’s logic it followed that since Jack Flatray was a thief this man might have committed all the crimes in the calendar.
“I don’t know.” Then, impulsively, “No, you don’t, but you may be for all that.”
“I’m not asking anything for myself. You may do as you please after I’ve gone. Send for Mr. Flatray and tell him if you like.”
A horse cantered across the plaza toward the store. Bellamy turned quickly to go.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” the girl called after him in a low voice.
Norris swung from the saddle. “Who’s our hurried friend?” he asked carelessly.
“Oh, a new rider of ours. Name of Morse.” She changed the subject. “Are you—do you think you know who the rustler is?”
His cold, black eyes rested in hers. She read in 58 them something cruel and sinister. It was as if he were walking over the grave of an enemy.
“I’m gathering evidence, a little at a time.”
“Do I know him?”