The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch. Matt Rand
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the words he knew Matt would have spoken: “That’s kind of reckless talk, Larson.” He was committed to wring the last drop of information about Matt from these two.
“Maybe so, Evans,” cried Larson stiffly, watching Bide’s arms. “But a gent of yore caliber ain’t material for a lawman. And will never get to be.” There was a latent threat in his voice.
“Yuh can never tell,” drawled Bide. He saw Larson’s eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t come for shootin’ purposes, Larson.”
“One thing I’d like to know,” demanded Larson. “Where yuh got all the money to buy out Jim Wurt’s Star for tonight and give away whiskey like it was water? Yuh never worked a day since yuh came here, Matt Evans—”
High up in Bide’s face, his temple throbbed violently. He knew only too well where Matt had gotten the money. Suddenly, he sickened of the game. His voice grew tight.
“Since yuh won’t sell,” he said briefly, “I’ll say good night.” He tipped his hat to Kate Larson, and went out.
Father and daughter stared after him.
“He won’t be elected, will he, Dad?” Kate asked finally.
“Not a chance,” exclaimed Sam Larson. But there was a worried look in his eye.
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