"Put it in gunny sacks. I'll manage."
Tarkman reached beneath the counter for a gunny sack and said amiably,
"Fishing?"
"Loafing," Jeff answered. "Nothing strenuous."
"Staying long?"
"I don't know."
"Where you staying?"
"Blazer's cabin."
Abel Tarkman's jaw tautened and he said no more. Jeff frowned. It was as
though something cold had crept between them, and why should the mention
of Blazer bring that about? Without speaking any more, the storekeeper
totaled Jeff's bill on a piece of brown wrapping paper and Jeff paid in
cash. Ordinarily he'd have tried to barter, but, though the pack was
full, he still had ideas about trading with the hill people.
Shouldering two half-filled gunny sacks, Jeff left the store. The sun
had set, but enough light remained so that he could see. Between two
far-spaced houses, and a sufficient distance from the store, Jeff took
the six shotgun shells from one pocket and a knife from another.
Carefully he pried the wadding from each shell and poured the shot out.
Just as carefully replacing the shot with tightly-rolled bits of paper
that he tore from his packages, he re-assembled the shells. Not
forgotten was the fury of which Dan was capable. He had promised Jeff
that he'd do no shooting on impulse, but Jeff wanted no accidents should
Dan encounter a Whitney when he had the shotgun in his hands.
Jeff was reassembling the last shell when, his badge shining in the
day's last light, the man he'd seen in the store came to and paused
beside him.
"Howdy."
"Howdy."
"My name's Ellis," the constable said. "Bill Ellis and I'm constable
here."
"Jeff Tarrant," Jeff extended his hand. They shook and Bill Ellis asked,
"You said you're staying at Blazer's cabin?"
"That's right."
"See anything of a youngster thereabouts?"
"You mean Dan Blazer? Yes, he's there."
"Then I guess I'd better walk out with you and pick him up. Poor little
tad's all alone in the world."
"No, he isn't. I'm taking care of him."