Fiddlefoot by Luke; Short Page B

slowly. “Like you said, Johnny talks too much.” He reflected a moment and added, “We all should of waited.”
    Frank tossed him a cup and Cass, squatting before the fire, poured himself some coffee. Removing his pipe, he drank deeply of the scalding coffee and then exhaled and looked over at Frank.
    â€œYou’re passin’ up a pretty good thing in Saber—if you are passin’ it up.”
    â€œI am,” Frank said.
    Cass drank the rest of the coffee and with a spare, thoughtful movement, he put his pipe back in his mouth. “Who killed him?” he asked abruptly.
    â€œTake your choice.”
    Cass almost smiled then. “I wouldn’t pick you,” he said mildly. “Not even after the namin’ Rob gave you.”
    Frank didn’t comment. Now Cass reached into the edge of the fire, picked up a coal, and placed it in the bowl of his pipe, puffing the tobacco alight. Decades of blacksmithing had given Cass calluses on his big hands that had turned his skin into a black and leathery rind, impervious to heat. When he had his light, he tossed the coal back into the fire and observed dryly, “If there was a bastard in the bunkhouse that night, I’d say it was Rob, not you.”
    â€œSo would I,” Frank said woodenly.
    â€œWhen you didn’t kill Rob that night, I figured you never would,” Cass said. “That’s why Hannan’s wrong when he suspects you.”
    â€œHow’d you know he does?”
    â€œHe said so,” Cass replied. “He was out yesterday.”
    Frank felt a faint chill of premonition. Nunnally was at work, then.
    â€œHe wants you to come in and see him,” Cass added, and now he looked at Frank. “That why you gave up Saber?”
    Frank nodded. Cass stood up now and said off-handedly, “We figured a week ago you’d come back and rooster around, maybe pension Jess off and fire the whole bunch of us that heard Rob name you.”
    â€œHow do you know I wouldn’t have, if Hannan had let me alone?”
    â€œYou could have kept the outfit long enough to fire us, couldn’t you?”
    Frank remained silent, wondering what this was leading up to, and Cass seemed satisfied. He took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at it, scowling, and then he said, almost shyly: “Johnny saw some of your ponies over by the Horn Creek line camp last week. He’ll drive ’em over tomorrow. You go on down and see Hannan, and Johnny and me will bring down your string.”
    Frank stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Cass met his glance. Finally, Frank asked, “Why, Cass?”
    â€œDamned if I rightly know,” Cass murmured. “For ten years I watched Rob kick you into somethin’ I didn’t much like. And then, when you’re finally rid of him, Hannan tries it. That’s too much.” He paused. “Can Johnny and me help?”
    â€œSure,” Frank said softly.
    Next morning at daybreak Frank turned his string of horses out of the corral, and he and Cass ran them for a couple of miles until the edge was off them. Cass turned back then, and Frank made the drive alone down to Saber, which he reached at midday.
    Turning the bunch into the big corral at Saber, he held them long enough to rope out a close-coupled bay and change his saddle to him, after which he turned the remainder into the horse pasture.
    Riding past the cookshack he got a reluctant wave from the cook standing in the doorway, and that was all.
    He made the ride down to Rifle at a mile-eating walk and jog, and now he speculated on what Hannan, prompted by Hugh’s misinformation, might say to him. Anything could happen; he didn’t know. In late afternoon he came to the break in the timber on the grade above Rifle. Below him, and downriver, he could see the town and the crawling antlike figures making up the traffic in the main street.
    Off toward the river below town, he heard faint shouts and