that a man stopped smelling himself after three days.
"What's this about the shooting?" Hayden fairly growled the question, displaying the inherent charm that ran so strongly in his family.
David shifted his weight in the saddle. "I just wanted to ask your pa a few questions."
"Why pester Pa?"
That inquiry came from inside the house. Boots thumped loudly to the door, and Cyrus, the next oldest son, came out. The very spit of Hayden and his father, Cyrus positioned himself at Jeb's right side.
"Pa's got no quarrel with Darby McClintoch," Cyrus exclaimed. "Neither does Hayden or me."
"Never said any of you did," David replied. "I'm just sifting through the flour for weevils, so to speak."
"Ain't no weevils around here," Cyrus assured him.
David smiled. "I'm sure,not. I just dropped by to
see if you fellows saw or heard anything yesterday. As a crow flies, the scene of the shooting isn't that far from here."
"Happened in the same place where Hollister got his," Jeb interjected. "Leastwise, that's what Slim Jim says."
"Slim Jim seems to know quite a few details," David observed dryly. "That's strange. I've kept a pretty tight lid on things."
Jeb's beady little eyes took on a dangerous glint. "You sayin' I'm lyin'?"
David sat back in the saddle, a clear sign to anyone who knew him well that he wanted fast access to his weapon. The blasting potential of a shotgun still fresh in Joseph's mind, he took his cue from David and tossed down his cigarette.
"I'm just amazed that Slim Jim knows so much about the shooting, like I said," David replied evenly. "Make what you want of it."
"Maybe you oughta talk to Doc," Jeb suggested. The brown hen chose that moment to leave her nest in the washtub. She clucked cheerfully as she hopped off the porch. "Doc was at the Golden Slipper last night, flappin' his lip about Darby to anybody who'd listen."
David's jaw muscle had started to tick. "You never liked Henry Hollister, did you, Jeb?"
"Hated his guts, more like," Jeb shot back. "He was a selfish, connivin' bastard."
"How do you figure that?"
"Just was, that's all, and the devil take his black soul."
"Rumor has it that you had some kind of a boundary dispute with him."
"Dis-pute, hell. It was a flat-out war, and he only won 'cause he hired a highfalutin lawyer outa Denver to twist the facts all around."
"The facts as they actually were?" David asked. "Or the facts as you saw them?"
Pritchard came forward a step, his face flushing red with anger above his scraggly mustache and beard. "Facts is facts, and there's only one way to see 'em. Wolverine Crick marked my south boundary, and that damned flood in seventy-nine moved it. Way I see it, my property line should've moved with it!"
"Not according to the recorded deed that I read last night," David replied. "Your south boundary line description clearly states that the rock formation, once at the center of Wolverine Creek, is the permanent survey monument, with the boundary moving in a straight line, east and west from there, for a certain number of feet in each direction. The stream helped delineate that line, but it didn't legally define it. The rocks did."
"Fancy words! Hollister stole what was rightfully mine!" Pritchard jabbed his chest with a grimy finger. "My land, bought and paid for with my own sweat."
"A lot of folks think it was just the other way around, that it was you who tried to steal from Hollister by insisting that the stream marked your property line, even though it had moved and encompassed several acres of Hollister's prime ranchland."
"Bullshit. It ain't stealin' to demand what's already yourn. I bought a place with runnin' water.
Ain't right
that the water's gone, leavin' me nothin' but a dry crick bed and thirsty cows. But Henry Hollister refused to set things right."
"He channeled water into a pond on your property."
"Well, whoop-dee-do. Wasn't that just grand of him?"
"Did you kill him?" David fired the question.
"Hell, no, I didn't kill him.
"What's this about the shooting?" Hayden fairly growled the question, displaying the inherent charm that ran so strongly in his family.
David shifted his weight in the saddle. "I just wanted to ask your pa a few questions."
"Why pester Pa?"
That inquiry came from inside the house. Boots thumped loudly to the door, and Cyrus, the next oldest son, came out. The very spit of Hayden and his father, Cyrus positioned himself at Jeb's right side.
"Pa's got no quarrel with Darby McClintoch," Cyrus exclaimed. "Neither does Hayden or me."
"Never said any of you did," David replied. "I'm just sifting through the flour for weevils, so to speak."
"Ain't no weevils around here," Cyrus assured him.
David smiled. "I'm sure,not. I just dropped by to
see if you fellows saw or heard anything yesterday. As a crow flies, the scene of the shooting isn't that far from here."
"Happened in the same place where Hollister got his," Jeb interjected. "Leastwise, that's what Slim Jim says."
"Slim Jim seems to know quite a few details," David observed dryly. "That's strange. I've kept a pretty tight lid on things."
Jeb's beady little eyes took on a dangerous glint. "You sayin' I'm lyin'?"
David sat back in the saddle, a clear sign to anyone who knew him well that he wanted fast access to his weapon. The blasting potential of a shotgun still fresh in Joseph's mind, he took his cue from David and tossed down his cigarette.
"I'm just amazed that Slim Jim knows so much about the shooting, like I said," David replied evenly. "Make what you want of it."
"Maybe you oughta talk to Doc," Jeb suggested. The brown hen chose that moment to leave her nest in the washtub. She clucked cheerfully as she hopped off the porch. "Doc was at the Golden Slipper last night, flappin' his lip about Darby to anybody who'd listen."
David's jaw muscle had started to tick. "You never liked Henry Hollister, did you, Jeb?"
"Hated his guts, more like," Jeb shot back. "He was a selfish, connivin' bastard."
"How do you figure that?"
"Just was, that's all, and the devil take his black soul."
"Rumor has it that you had some kind of a boundary dispute with him."
"Dis-pute, hell. It was a flat-out war, and he only won 'cause he hired a highfalutin lawyer outa Denver to twist the facts all around."
"The facts as they actually were?" David asked. "Or the facts as you saw them?"
Pritchard came forward a step, his face flushing red with anger above his scraggly mustache and beard. "Facts is facts, and there's only one way to see 'em. Wolverine Crick marked my south boundary, and that damned flood in seventy-nine moved it. Way I see it, my property line should've moved with it!"
"Not according to the recorded deed that I read last night," David replied. "Your south boundary line description clearly states that the rock formation, once at the center of Wolverine Creek, is the permanent survey monument, with the boundary moving in a straight line, east and west from there, for a certain number of feet in each direction. The stream helped delineate that line, but it didn't legally define it. The rocks did."
"Fancy words! Hollister stole what was rightfully mine!" Pritchard jabbed his chest with a grimy finger. "My land, bought and paid for with my own sweat."
"A lot of folks think it was just the other way around, that it was you who tried to steal from Hollister by insisting that the stream marked your property line, even though it had moved and encompassed several acres of Hollister's prime ranchland."
"Bullshit. It ain't stealin' to demand what's already yourn. I bought a place with runnin' water.
Ain't right
that the water's gone, leavin' me nothin' but a dry crick bed and thirsty cows. But Henry Hollister refused to set things right."
"He channeled water into a pond on your property."
"Well, whoop-dee-do. Wasn't that just grand of him?"
"Did you kill him?" David fired the question.
"Hell, no, I didn't kill him.
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