“F-fellow drifted in from Vernal yesterday,” the justice piped, easing himself in his chair. “Told a s-story might interest you. Said Jake Houck had some trouble with a y-young Ute buck over a hawss. Houck had been drinkin’, I reckon. Anyhow he let the Injun have it in the stomach. Two-three shots outa his six-gun. The Utes claimed it was murder. Jake he didn’t wait to adjust no claims, but lit out on the jump.”
“Won’t the Government get him?”
The fat man shrugged. “Oh, well, a Ute’s a Ute. Point is that Houck, who always was a t-tough nut, has gone bad since the boys rode him on a rail. He’s proud as Lucifer, an’ it got under his hide. He’s kinda cuttin’ loose an’ givin’ the devil in him free rein. Wouldn’t surprise me if he turned into a killer of the worst kind.”
Bob’s eyes fastened to his uneasily. “You think he’s—after me?”
“I think he’ll d-do to watch.”
Blister rolled a cigarette and lit it before he asked casually, “Stayin’ long in town?”
“Leavin’ to-day for the ranch.”
“What size gun you carry for rattlesnakes?”
“Mine’s a forty-five.” Bob took it out, examined it, and thrust the weapon between his trousers and his shirt. If he felt any mental disturbance he did not show it except in the anxious eyes.