"That's just a joke. His friends call him that because his people are 'way up in G. Fine bred—crumbs. Get the idea?"
"I think so."
"Came from the old country, his father did—son of some big gun over there. Likely he's some kin to your friends."
He put the last observation as a question, with a sharp glance from under his heavy gray eyebrows. Moya chose to regard it as a statement.
"Are you still searching for him?" she asked.
"You bet we are. The sheriff's got a notion he's up in these hills somewheres. A man answering his description was seen by some rancher. But if you ask me, I'd say he was busy losing himself 'way off in Routt County, clear off the map. He used to punch cows up there and he knows all kinds of holes to hide in. It don't stand to reason he'd still be fooling around here. He's bridle-wise and saddle-broke—knows every turn of the road."
"Yes," Moya assented listlessly.
"He had his getaway all planned before ever he came down here. That's a cinch. The fishing was all a bluff. The four of them had the hold-up arranged weeks ago. They've gone into a hole and drawn it in after them."
"Don't you think there's a chance he didn't do it?" she asked in a forlorn way.
"Not a chance. Jack Kilmeny and Colter pulled off the play. What the others had to do with it I don't know."