“Eh?” ejaculated the ex-convict, with a look of awakening, almost fraternal, interest.
Buck turned to the sheriff.
“Of course, Tom, you’ll have read all about that terrible affair in the newspapers?”
The sheriff surreptitiously grabbed Buck’s arm. He spoke in a confidential whisper.
“Drop that subject for the present. I’ve said nothin’ about it to old Pierre in case it might upset him. I ain’t dared to mention the name Thurston to him, for he shared the White Wolf’s hatred of the breed.” Then Tom gave a little cough and glanced across the fireplace at the Frenchman. “Just a little cowboy shootin’ scrap, Pierre, in which our chum Dick Willoughby has got himself temporarily involved. But say, boys,” he went on, casting his eyes toward Munson and Rover, “I just thanked the Lord it wasn’t me as had to arrest Dick. Of course if I had still been sheriff I’d a done it—when I was a sworn-in officer, duty was duty all the time with me, as every damned horse-thief within a hundred miles knows. But to take an honest man into custody for shootin’ a miserable human coyote like that young—”
“Well, we’re not a-goin’ to speak about him just now,” interrupted Buck, bestowing a cautioning kick on the sheriff’s shins.
Tom took the timely reminder.
“That would have gone sore against the grain,” he said emphatically, as he reached for the whisky bottle and replenished his tumbler.
“Glad to be back?” asked Buck, beaming pleasantly on old Pierre.
The Frenchman lifted one thin hand and smiled.