"Don't ask me what I mean," Norton cut him short. "Del Rio is a pretty
big man for a Mexican; was this highwayman about his size?"
Kemble hesitated.
"It's hard to say just how big a man is when he comes in on you like
that," he said at last. "At a guess I'd say that the man who stuck me
up was a little taller than del Rio. But I wouldn't swear to it."
"It might have been del Rio himself, then?" Norton insisted.
"Yes. Or it might have been the Devil's grandmother. I don't . . ."
"See anything of del Rio the last few days?"
"Saw him yesterday. He was in camp. Was talking mines."
"See anything of Galloway hereabouts of late?"
"No. Haven't seen him for a month or two."
Norton asked a few other questions, kept his own thoughts to himself,
and rode away. Less than a mile from the camp he met Jim Galloway
riding a sweat-wet horse. The two men reined in sharply, each man's
eyes matching the other's for hardness. Galloway's face was red, the
fiery red of anger.
"Going back for what you forgot, Jim?" asked Norton.
For a moment Galloway, staring back at him, seemed utterly speechless
in the grip of his wrath. Norton did not remember ever having seen
such blazing anger in the prominent eyes.
"Between you and me, Rod Norton," muttered Galloway at last, "I have
turned a trick or two in my time.
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