“So am I. Miss Allison was shot in her doorway a few nights back.”
“God!” cried the sheriff, “what’s that?”
“Just a scratch on her arm—but it was meant for her heart. I was there at the time. The ball came from across the river—a high-power gun.”
The sheriff groaned.
“That’s it! The same old stuff—shoot from ambush—no evidence—nothing. It makes a man wild! I’ve done all a man could do, and I can’t put my finger on a thing.”
“I’ve heard about the disappearing cattle,” said the other, “and I’ve done a bit on my own hook. I may as well tell you now, that my name is not Smith, and that I’ve been in Blue Stone Cañon for nearly two months.”
Selwood looked at him in astonishment.
“No one knows it all, even about his own doorstep,” he said. “I thought you were just passing through.”
“If you will, I’d like you to ride up the cañon with me,” said Fair, “to where the right wall falls away beyond the mouth of Little Blue. It’s early and we can make it by noon, I think.”
They fell silent for a while, threading the hills that rose in a jumbled mass to the south of Nameless Valley, and after an hour or so, reached the river. They crossed on the riffle where Nance was accustomed to ford on her way to Blue Stone, and entered the mouth of the great cut.