Mac picked it up. His fingers were not quite steady, for a great dread drenched his heart like a rush of icy water. Upon that gray felt hat with the pinched crown was stamped the individuality—and the initials—of Luck Cullison.
“Don’t know as I recognize it,” he lied, not very readily. “Not to know it. Why?”
“Thought perhaps you might know it. The hold-up dropped it while getting away.”
Mackenzie’s eyes flinched. “Dropped it. How was that?”
“A man happened to come along San Miguel street just as the robber swung to his horse. He heard the cries of the men inside, guessed what was doing, and exchanged shots with the miscreant. He shot this hat off the fellow’s head.”
“The Sentinel didn’t tell any such a story.”
“I didn’t give that detail to the editor.”
“Who was the man that shot the robber?”
“Cass Fendrick.”
“But he didn’t claim to recognize the hold-up?” Mackenzie forced himself to ask this in spite of his fears.