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She found out that the rider Van had knocked Joel down in Brackton's store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. Van laughed off the rumor and Brackton gave her no satisfaction. Moreover, she heard no other rumors. The channels of gossip had suddenly closed to her. Bostil, when questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed her, and all he told her was to leave Creech alone.
"What'd you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?" demanded Brackton. "He got what he deserved," replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the head of this strange attitude of Brackton's, roused Slone's temper. "Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you fer instance, how you took advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin' her an' maulin' her the way Joel seen you."
Bostil gazed at his chief rider. "Wal, I reckon we didn't kill Sears, after all," replied Holley. "I wasn't never sure." "Lord! Cordts an' Sears in camp," ejaculated Bostil, and he began to pace the room. "No, they're gone now," said Brackton. "Take it easy, boss. Sit down," drawled Holley. "The King is safe, an' all the racers. I swear to thet.
I heard that flood comin' down long before it got here," replied Slone, deliberately. Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended. "Wal, take my hunch an' leave!" he said, turning away. "Brackton, if you mean well, I'm much obliged," returned Slone, slowly, ponderingly. "But I'll not take the hunch." "Suit yourself," added Brackton, coldly, and he went away.
Brackton employed riders, teamsters, sometimes Indians, to freight supplies in once a month from Durango. And that was over two hundred miles away. Sometimes the supplies did not arrive on time occasionally not at all. News from the outside world, except that elicited from the taciturn travelers marching into Utah, drifted in at intervals. But it was not missed.
"Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts -down among the monuments fer any considerable time?" queried Brackton. "Yes, I have several weeks out there, an' about ten days or so around the Ford." "Where was you the night of the flood?" The shrewd scrutiny of the old man, the suspicion, angered Slone. "If it's any of your mix, I was out on the slope among the rocks.
Slone drew nearer, and the nearer he got the swifter he strode. Instinct told him that he was making the right move. He would face this man whom he was accused of ruining. The poor mustangs hung their heads dejectedly. "Bags of bones," some rider loudly said. And then Slone drew dose to the excited group. Brackton held the center; he was gesticulating; his thin voice rose piercingly. "Creech!
He followed the tracks to a pile of rocks where the Creeches had made a greasewood fire and had cooked a meal. This was strange within a mile of the Ford, where Brackton and others would have housed them. What was stranger was the fact that the trail started south from there and swung round toward the village. Slone's heart began to thump.
There was not a sawed board in all that structure, and some of the pine logs showed how they had been dropped from the bluff. Brackton, a little old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those of a bird, came briskly out to meet an incoming freighter. The wagon was minus a hind wheel, but the teamster had come in on three wheels and a pole.
I kind of took a shine to you at first, an' thet's why I come up hyar to tell you it'd be wise fer you to vamoose." "What!" exclaimed Slone. Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing an instant, continued: "I've no call to give you a hunch, but I'll do it jest because I did like you fust off." The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparaging all at once.
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