Black desisted from chewing tobacco to hum a fragment of a song he had cherished twenty-five years.
“Every daisy in the dell
Knows my story, knows it well,”
he murmured tunelessly.
“If he should be right, by jiminy by jinks—” Prowers was talking to himself. He let the conditional clause stand alone. Slowly the palm of his hand rasped back and forth over a rough, unshaven chin.
“Did they catch this tramp that shot up Clint?” asked Black.
“Not yet. Daniels is patrolling the railroad. If the fellow hasn’t made his getaway on the night freight, they’ll likely get him. He’s got to stick to the railway.”
“Why has he?” the rider inquired. He was watching a moving object among the rocks below.
“So’s to skip the country. He ain’t acquainted here—knows nothing about these hills. If he wasn’t taken by some rancher and turned over to Daniels, he’d starve to death. Likely he’s lying under cover somewheres along the creek.”
“Likely he ain’t,” differed Black. “Likely he’s ducked for the hills.” His gaze was still on the boulder field below. From its case beside the saddle he drew a rifle.