Part 51 (2/2)

She removed her gaze from the flyspecked window and stared abstractedly at Nate. ”What news?”

Nate swelled his chest with satisfaction. Some people enjoy being the bearers of evil tidings. Besides, Nate had stopped going to see Hazel.

Somehow he had been made to feel that his visits were not the bright spots in her drab existence that he had considered them to be. There was more than a little malice in Nate's make-up. And the news----

”Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night.”

Nate's hand pushed the sliding weight several notches along the scale beam. Red Herring, the town marshal, slouching with seeming aimlessness against a showcase at the other end of the counter, covertly watched the girl.

”Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night,” said Nate.

Hazel wondered why Nate's eyes never left her face. ”Tip O'Gorman! He was one of Uncle Tom's friends. Who did it?”

Nate's eyes were fairly devouring her. The man looked positively pleased. ”They don't know yet. But--” He paused.

She waited. What was he goggling and boggling at? ”Well?”

”They found Bill Wingo's quirt on the floor beside the body and right inside the door a snakeskin hat-band the whole town knows belongs to Bill.”

Hazel's cheeks began to glow. ”That doesn't prove anything,” she declared in a level voice. ”Bill owns three quirts to my knowledge, and he hasn't worn that snake hatband since last July. It began to stretch then and was always working up off the crown, and he couldn't tighten it without ruining the skin, so he stopped wearing it.”

”It worked off the crown once too often last night,” offered Nate.

Hazel's black eyes were glittering through slitted eyelids. Really, Nate Samson should have been warned.

”You think Bill did it?” asked Hazel Walton.

Nate nodded. ”So does everybody else.”

This was not strictly true. Billy Wingo had several warm friends.

”At any rate,” Nate pursued with relish, ”there's a warrant out for Bill.”

”Another warrant!” Hazel's hand moved imperceptibly nearer a broad-bladed cheese-knife that lay on the counter.

”Another warrant. You bet another warrant. That makes three counts he's wanted on--stage robbery, rustling that chestnut horse of Sam Larder's and now this murder. I always said Bill Wingo was too good to be true.”

Hazel Walton made no further remark. She reached for the cheese-knife.

Nate Samson ducked under the counter. The cheese-knife whirred within an inch of his p.r.i.c.kling scalp and stuck quivering in the edge of a shelf.

”Liar!” announced Hazel in a loud, unsympathetic tone. ”I'm only sorry I haven't a gun with me. Talking like that about a man you're not fit to say h.e.l.lo to. Here, I don't want any of this stuff! You can keep it.”

So saying, she toppled over her whole pile of wrapped purchases and marched out of the store. The marshal followed her to the door. He returned to his post at the counter a minute later.

”It's all right, Nate,” he said. ”She's gone over to the other store.”

Nate Samson emerged slowly. His pouchy cheeks were pale with fear.

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