"Not one of 'em fit for hard riding right off the reel," he told himself, and cursed a little. "Looks like Sam Prescott was my one best bet."
He came to a stream and rode in it till almost sunset when he left it, dismounted beside a tall cottonwood and shinned to the top. To his earnest satisfaction he saw, hopelessly distant and following utterly wrong lines, the tiny black beads that were his pursuers.
"And that's that," said Billy Wingo, rustling groundward rapidly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHAT HAZEL THOUGHT
Nate Samson, weighing sugar for Hazel Walton, looked at her sidewise. "Heard the news, Hazel?"
She removed her gaze from the flyspecked window and stared abstractedly at Nate. "What news?"
Nate swelled his chest with satisfaction. Some people enjoy being the bearers of evil tidings. Besides, Nate had stopped going to see Hazel. Somehow he had been made to feel that his visits were not the bright spots in her drab existence that he had considered them to be. There was more than a little malice in Nate's make-up. And the news——
"Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night."