Sweeney considered, rasping his stubbly chin. “I don’t reckon Cass would do Miss Kate a meanness. He’s a white man, say the worst of him. But it might be Blackwell. When last seen he was heading into the hills. If he met her——”
A spasm of pain shot across Luck’s face. “My God! That would be awful.”
“By Gum, there he is now, Luck.” Sweeney’s finger pointed to an advancing rider.
Cullison swung as on a pivot in time to see someone drop into the dip in the road, just beyond the corral. “Who—Blackwell?”
“No. Cass.”
Fendrick reappeared presently and turned in at the lane. Cullison, standing on the porch at the head of the steps looked like a man who was passing through the inferno. But he looked too a personified day of judgment untempered by mercy. His eyes bored like steel gimlets into those of his enemy.
The sheepman spoke, looking straight at his foe. “I’ve just heard the news. I was down at Yesler’s ranch when you ’phoned asking if they had seen anything of Miss Cullison. I came up to ask you one question. When was she seen last?”
“About ten o’clock this morning. Why?”
“I saw her about noon. She was on Mesa Verde, headed for Blue Cañon looked like.”