The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham Page B

dead.
    Henry dropped the galleys. “He could be in Mexico City,” he said. “San Francisco, Denver, El Paso. Wherever there’s a poker game going on. Declaring him dead isn’t exactly like making a weather prediction.”
    Stockard bobbed his bald head. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s best that you go out there and look things over—see the mess he left her. If you agree with me that a woman can’t handle a ranch where border hoppers, treasure hunters, and Mexican cow thieves come and go like it was a hotel, then for God’s sake persuade her to sell!”

Chapter Eleven
    In the wide entrance to Budge Gorman’s stable, his dog lay Sphinx-fashion in the shade, snapping at flies; but Budge was not in sight. A horseshoe hung from a hitch rail, a railroad spike dangling from the horseshoe. Henry rang it and it produced a thin chiming in a class with Budge’s hee-heeing laugh. In the barn Budge called, “Yo!” and in a moment he emerged leading Henry’s horse and carrying his saddle and pad on his shoulder. After looping the lead rope around the rack, he dropped the saddle on the horse’s back, set his black hat on his brow, and stared at Henry with a wild expression.
    â€œHear you’re leaving us!” he said.
    â€œFor a while, Budge.”
    â€œDon’t make any damn sense, Logan! Haul in town one day, leave the next. What’s the matter with you?”
    Henry tapped the horseshoe again. Listening to it hum, he said thoughtfully, “Funny, isn’t it? Maybe I’m restless. I don’t know.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know, either. I expect you don’t like Nogales. Most city people don’t. Think they’re too damn good for us.”
    â€œHey!” Henry protested, gripping Budge’s shoulder. “I think this place is just right. I like a town you can shoot up and get away with it.”
    Budge began his hissing laugh. “What did Ambrose do?”
    â€œOh, he told me not to do it again. What’s the bad news?”
    â€œTwo-fifty. Gave him some molasses ‘n’ oats.”
    No wonder the horse was pawing the dirt, Henry thought—inaction and rich food after three days riding the rods. “Did you check his hoofs?”
    Budge dug in his overalls pocket for a hoof pick. “Keep your shirt on. Might I ask where you’re off to?”
    â€œYonder—up the river a piece.”
    â€œBetter let me draw you a map, then. Man can get lost up yonder. Feller 1 know ain’t been seen for months.” Budge’s windy laugh said he knew exactly what Henry was up to.
    Henry grinned. “I’m just going out to look at ranch land. I have a friend in K. C. who’s interested in acquiring a ranch hereabouts. Thought Spider Ranch might suit him.”
    â€œIt’s mighty good land,” Budge said. “Fine stands of grama and poverty grass. But that ranch is too far out for a single lady.”
    â€œAre we talking about the same lady? I thought she was married.”
    Budge chuckled. “Not so’s you could notice it! Not lately. Rip’s dead and buried, if I know gamblin’ men.”
    â€œFrances will be meeting me here directly,” Henry said.
    â€œI know that! She’s picking up some freight at the depot.” Budge glared at him and dropped the hoof pick in his pocket. Then he peered up the street and muttered: “Need some advice, Henry.”
    â€œGun problem?”
    Budge took a breath. “Business problem.”
    â€œMan, you have no idea how little I know about business! I’m just an ignorant gunsmith. If it can’t be improved with gun oil, a screwdriver, and a rag, forget it.”
    â€œWell, all’s I really need is a feller to write something down for me.”
    â€œFine, then. I write a pretty good hand.”
    Budge went into the barn and emerged in seconds with a ruled letter pad and a pencil. He placed