Prowers tilted back his chair on two legs and chirped up with satiric comment. “We got quite a nice party present. Any late arrivals not yet heard from?”
Both Lon and Justin Merrick were taken aback. In the darkness they had not yet recognized the little man.
The foreman spoke dryly. “Might ’a’ known it. Trouble and Jake Prowers hunt in couples. Always did.”
“I could get a right good testimonial from Mr. Lon Forbes,” the cowman said, with his high cackle of splenetic laughter. “Good old Lon, downright an’ four-square, always a booster for me.”
Betty whispered. “He’s an awful man, Lon. I’m scared of him. I didn’t know any minute what he was going to do. Oh, I am glad you came.”
“Same here,” Lon replied. “Don’t you be scared, Betty. He can’t do a thing—not a thing.”
Merrick had been taking off his skis. He came up to Betty now. “Did he annoy you—say anything or—?”
“No, Justin.” A shiver ran down her spine. “He just looked and grinned. I wanted to scream. He shot Mr. Hollister. I know he did. Or had it done by that Cig.”
“Yes. I don’t doubt that.”
The doctor, disencumbered of impedimenta of snowshoes and wraps, fussed forward to the bedside. “Well, let’s see—let’s see what’s wrong here.”