then pulled his bronc back on to his haunches and sat pop-eyed.
Every cow-punch in town recognized Zang Whistler on the instant. A few knew the name of the scowling man who rode trussed just ahead of the ugly muzzle of Zang's .45. But a very few recognized the white face of the girl who carried the rifle so easily snuggled into the crook of her left arm.
It would be hard to say whether the prodigy of Zang Whistler's daring to come to Two Moons stirred the town deepest or the sight of the strange girl escorting a prisoner. Surely something big was afoot. The Big Country had plumped a cardinal event smack into the lap of the town.
It was a withered little weasel in faded overalls—some nonentity in from a sheep camp—who exploded the biggest bombshell. He gave one searching look at the bloated face of the prisoner and then screamed for all Main Street to hear:
"It 's the Killer! Look at the !"
"The Killer!—the Killer!" sped the word from mouth to mouth down the double row of wooden awnings flanking the broad street.
