Brit
was right. They did well to hang on and continue living in that
country.
An open killing, one that would attract the attention of the outside
world, might be avenged. The man who committed the crime might be
punished,--if public opinion were sufficiently massed against him. In
that case Senator Warfield would cry loudest for justice. But it would
take a stronger man than the country held to raise the question of Fred
Thurman's death and take even the first steps toward proving it a
murder.
"It ain't that they can _do_ anything, Mr. Warfield," the man from
Whisper said guardedly, urging his horse close to the machine that stood
in the trail from Echo. It was broad day--a sun-scorched day to
boot--and Senator Warfield perspired behind the wheel of his car. "It's
the talk they may get started."
"What have they said? The girl was at the ranch for several days. She
didn't talk there, or Hawkins would have told me."
"She was sick. I saw her the other day at the Quirt, and she more'n half
recognized me. Hell! How'd _I_ know she was in there among them rocks?
Everybody that was apt to be riding through was accounted for, and I
knew there wasn't any one coming horseback or with a rig.
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