"That's bully. Say, I got news for you, Mr. Crawford. Brad Steelman's dead. They found him in his house, shot plumb through the head. I reckon he won't do you any more meanness."
"Who killed him?"
"They ain't sayin'," returned the teamster cautiously. "Some folks was guessin' that mebbe Dug Doble could tell, but there ain't any evidence far's I know. Whoever it was robbed the safe."
The old cattleman made no comment. From the days of their youth Steelman had been his bitter enemy, but death had closed the account between them. His mind traveled back to those days twenty-five years ago when he and the sheepman had both hitched their horses in front of Helen Radcliff's home. It had been a fair fight between them, and he had won as a man should. But Brad had not taken his defeat as a man should. He had nourished bitterness and played his successful rival many a mean despicable trick. Out of these had grown the feud between them. Crawford did not know how it had come about, but he had no doubt Steelman had somehow fallen a victim in the trap he had been building for others.
A question brought his mind back to the present. The teamster was talking: "… so she started pronto. I s'pose you wasn't as bad hurt as Sanders figured."
"What's that?" asked Crawford.
"I was sayin' Miss Joyce she started right away when the note come from
Sanders."
"What note?"
"The one tellin' how you was hurt in the fire."
Crawford turned. "Come here, Dave," he called hoarsely.