True, Comstock, who seemed to know everything, had said in a
matter-of-fact way that it had been Jimmie Clayton who had shot him that
night between Juarez and El Paso. But nothing was proven. He had long
thought of Clayton as a man to whom he owed a debt of gratitude, and now
with the man, hunted as he was, his sympathy naturally went out to him,
evil-doer as he knew him to be.
Evidently Comstock read what was passing in the cowboy's mind.
"I'm not asking you to squeal on him, Buck," he said quietly. "Look
here, I could have taken him in last night if I had wanted to. I could
have got him a week ago if I had wanted him. But I didn't want him--I
don't want him now. I'm hunting bigger game."
Still Thornton hesitated, but now his hesitation was brief. He swung his
horse around toward the cabin.
"Let's ride back, Comstock," he said shortly. "I want a good long talk
with you."
Not another word about the matter did either man say as they unsaddled
or as they went up the knoll to the cabin. Not a word until the
fragrance of boiling coffee and frying bacon went out to mingle with the
freshness of the new day. Then as they sat at table and Comstock began
to soak the biscuits Thornton had made in the bacon gravy, they looked
at each other, and their eyes were alike grave and equally stern.
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