“And what has my father to do with that?” she demanded haughtily.
A satisfied spleen purred in his voice. “My dear young lady, that is what everyone is asking.”
“What do you mean? Say it.” There was fear as well as anger in her voice. Had her father somehow got into trouble trying to save Sam?
“Oh, I’m saying nothing. But what Sheriff Bolt means is that when he gets his handcuffs on Luck Cullison, he’ll have the man that can tell him where that twenty thousand is.”
“It’s a lie.”
He waved his hand airily, as one who declined responsibility in the matter, but his dark, saturnine face sparkled with malice.
“Maybe so. Seems to be some evidence, but I reckon he can explain that away—when he comes back. The hold-up dropped a hat with the initials L. C. in the band, since identified as his. He had lost a lot of money at poker. Next day he paid it. He had no money in the bank, but maybe he found it growing on a cactus bush.”
“You liar!” she panted, eyes blazing.
“I’ll take that from you, my dear, because you look so blamed pretty when you’re mad; but I wouldn’t take it from him—from your father, who is hiding out in the hills somewhere.”
Anger uncurbed welled from her in an inarticulate cry. He had come close to her, and was standing beside the stirrup, one bold hand upon the rein. Her quirt went swiftly up and down, cut like a thin bar of red-hot iron across his uplifted face. He stumbled back, half blind with the pain. Before he could realize what had happened the spur on her little boot touched the side of the pony, and it was off with a bound. She was galloping wildly down the trail toward home.