That dog is something queer about it.
He knows things."
"I'm going to the Sawtooth," Lone told him. "I can telephone to the
coroner from there. Anybody at Thurman's place, do you know?"
Swan shook his head and started again down the winding, steep trail. "I
don't hunt over that way for maybe a week. That's too bad he's killed. I
like Fred Thurman. He's a fine man, you bet."
"He was," said Lone soberly. "It's a damn shame he had to go--like
that."
Swan glanced back at him, studied Lone's face for an instant and turned
into a tributary gully where a stream trickled down over water-worn
rocks. "Here I leave you," he volunteered, as Lone came abreast of him.
"A coyote's crossed up there, and I maybe find his tracks. I could go do
chores for Fred Thurman if nobody's there. Should I do that? What you
say, Lone?"
"You might drift around by there if it ain't too much out of your way,
and see if he's got a man on the ranch," Lone suggested. "But you better
not touch anything in the house, Swan. The coroner'll likely appoint
somebody to look around and see if he's got any folks to send his stuff
to.
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