“Too bad. If they hadn’t I could have proved by them I was not one of the men who sold them the stock,” Flandrau replied.
“Like hell you could,” Buck snorted, then grinned at his prisoner in a shamefaced way: “You’re a good one, son.”
“Luck has been breaking bad for me, but when things are explained——”
“It sure will take a lot of explaining to keep you out of the pen. You’ll have to be slicker than Dutch was.”
Jake stuck his head in at the door. “Buck, you’re needed to help with them two-year-olds. The old man wants to have a talk with the rustler. Doc says he may. Maloney, will you take him up to the house? I’ll arrange to have you relieved soon as I can.”
Maloney had once ridden for the Circle C and was friendly with all the men on the place. He nodded. “Sure.”
A Mexican woman let them into the chamber where the wounded man lay. It was a large sunny southeast room with French windows opening upon a long porch. Kate was bending over the bed rearranging the pillows, but she looked up quickly when the two men entered. Her eyes were still gentle with the love that had been shining down from them upon her father.
Cullison spoke. “Sit down, Dick.” And to his prisoner: “You too.”
Flandrau saw close at hand for the first time the man who had been Arizona’s most famous fighting sheriff. Luck Cullison was well-built and of medium height, of a dark complexion, clean shaven, wiry and muscular. Already past fifty, he looked not a day more than forty. One glance was enough to tell Curly the kind of man this was. The power of him found expression in the gray steel-chilled eyes that bored into the young outlaw. A child could have told he was not one to trifle with.
“You have begun early, young fellow,” he said quietly.