Nate nodded. "So does everybody else."
This was not strictly true. Billy Wingo had several warm friends.
"At any rate," Nate pursued with relish, "there's a warrant out for Bill."
"Another warrant!" Hazel's hand moved imperceptibly nearer a broad-bladed cheese-knife that lay on the counter.
"Another warrant. You bet another warrant. That makes three counts he's wanted on—stage robbery, rustling that chestnut horse of Sam Larder's and now this murder. I always said Bill Wingo was too good to be true."
Hazel Walton made no further remark. She reached for the cheese-knife. Nate Samson ducked under the counter. The cheese-knife whirred within an inch of his prickling scalp and stuck quivering in the edge of a shelf.
"Liar!" announced Hazel in a loud, unsympathetic tone. "I'm only sorry I haven't a gun with me. Talking like that about a man you're not fit to say hello to. Here, I don't want any of this stuff! You can keep it."
So saying, she toppled over her whole pile of wrapped purchases and marched out of the store. The marshal followed her to the door. He returned to his post at the counter a minute later.
"It's all right, Nate," he said. "She's gone over to the other store."
Nate Samson emerged slowly. His pouchy cheeks were pale with fear. There was a dew of perspiration on his forehead.