You'll see that boy's grave. 'Murdered May 14, 1886.' That's what it says on his tombstone. His mother had it put there. She was around here a month or two tryin' to find out who shot him, had detectives from Denver smellin' around. But I tell you, Ed, private and confidential, and I don't give a damn who knows it, when two certain men on the Diamond Tail don't want things found out, things ain't found out."
Barrett thumbed the cards, head bent in thought. Presently he looked up into his partner's face, his own very grave.
"I'd begun to think the same way myself, old feller," he said.
A moment the two pairs of eyes met in a deep, understanding gaze, much as solemnly and meaningly as men shake hands over a matter when they have come to a point in their mutual understanding where words are no longer necessary.
"I guess it's your deal," said Fred.
The game went on, an interminable relay in a game that had been stretching out for many days. Several hands were played, each man keeping a careful score for the final casting up when the series should close.
"What became of that rustler's body, Fred?" Barrett asked, quietly, between plays, his eyes on the cards.
"You can search me, kid. I've been wonderin', It was gone when I got up that morning. If I was guessin', but I ain't, kid—put that down in your little red pill book, I ain't—I'd say he must 'a' had friends not very far off."
"It looks that way," Barrett said, feeling rise in
