"There is one named Neale, is n't there?"
"I--I reckon so."
"How do you know?"
"Wal," feeling it useless to struggle against the argument presented by
the blue steel barrel, "Hell, all I know is a fellow com' 'long yere a
while back with a paper signed Neale, thinkin' ter take my job."
"What happened to him?"
"Oh, he just nat'ally got kicked out inter the road, an' I reckon he 's
a running yet. He was a miserable Yankee runt, an' I did n't hurt the
cuss none to speak of. What yer askin' all this fer enyhow," he
questioned anxiously, "an' a drawin' that gun on me?"
"It seemed to be the only available method for extracting information.
Pardon my insistence, Coombs, but was n't that dead man up there the
fellow Neale sent?"
"Not by a damn sight," and I could see the perspiration break out on
his forehead. "Why, there wan't none enyhow. That guy skipped out
North agin."
"All right; we'll let it go this time. Now one more question and I am
done. Under whose orders are you in charge here?"
He was so long in answering, his eyes glaring ugly under heavy brows,
that I elevated my weapon, half believing he meditated an attack.
"You 've got to answer, Coombs," I said sternly, "or take the
consequences. I 'm in dead earnest.
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