Search e-Books

Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early
spring nights in the desert were cold.
Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering the
laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and
hard.
"John, I reckon you won't love me fer this here I've got to tell you, to-night
specially," he said, seriously.
"You old robber, I couldn't love you anyhow," retorted Bostil. But his humor
did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. "What's up?"
"Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?"
"I've no idea," replied Bostil. Yet he looked as if he was perfectly sure.
"Cordts! . . . Cordts, an' four of his outfit. Two of them I didn't know. Bad
men, judgin' from appearances, let alone company. The others was Hutchinson
an'--Dick Sears."
"DICK SEARS!" exclaimed Bostil.
Muncie and Williams echoed Bostil. Holley appeared suddenly interested. Creech
alone showed no surprise.
"But Sears is dead," added Bostil.
"He was dead--we thought," replied Brackton, with a grim laugh.


Pages:
40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64