"First thing," began Comstock, "let me finish my news. Charley Bedloe
was murdered last night."
"I know."
"The devil you do? All right. Then here's something else. His brother,
the Kid, they call him, swears that you killed him."
"I know," nodded Thornton as quietly as before.
Comstock made no pretence of hiding his surprise.
"I thought you had left before the shooting happened. I was all over
town; no one saw you...."
"Except the Kid. He did. He saw me outside the window through which
somebody shot Charley."
Comstock returned his attention to his biscuit and gravy.
"I'm a failure as a news monger," he grunted. "Go on. You tell _me_."
And Thornton told him. Before he had finished Comstock had pushed back
his chair and was letting his coffee go cold. For Thornton had told him
not alone of what had happened at the Here's How Saloon last night, but
of the work that Broderick and Pollard were doing, of all of his
certainties and his suspicions, of the "planted" evidence he had found
in the hay loft, of the missing saddle. Only he did not mention the name
of a girl, and he remembered that Pollard was her uncle and spared him
where he could.
"What a game! By high heaven, what a game!" Comstock pursed his lips
into a long whistle.
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