CHAPTER XXIV.THE QUARREL.
The scout reached the door of the office, only to be grabbed by one of the men who had been standing there and looking in, but who had now retired with others to a safer position.
“Keep away!” breathed the man. “They’ve got their shooters out, an’ there’ll be fireworks in a brace o’ shakes. If you go in there you’ll be right in the middle of the celebration.”
“That’s where I want to be,” answered the scout, shaking the hand from his arm, “and I want to get in there before the celebration begins.”
He stepped to the door and looked in.
Nate Dunbar and Jake Phelps were standing no more than a dozen feet apart, Phelps with his back to the counter and Dunbar across the room.
Furious anger burned in the face of Jake Phelps. In Dunbar’s face there was only determination—but it was deadly.
Each man held a revolver in his right hand, and each watched like a cat for the first move of the other to lift his weapon. Only a hair’s breadth separated these men from rash and ugly work.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Buffalo Bill sprang into the room and placed himself squarely between Dunbar and Jake Phelps.
“I reckon this has gone far enough,” said he curtly.
“Buffalo Bill!” exclaimed Dunbar. “Get away, amigo, and give me my chance at that hound!”
Dunbar’s voice, husky with pent-up passion, rang surprisingly in the scout’s ears. He had not much time to remark upon the depth of the young rancher’s feeling, however, before his keen eye caught a hostile move of Jake Phelps’ right hand.
In the wizardry of six-shooter practice, Buffalo Bill was second to none. Jake Phelps was perhaps a fraction of a second in lifting his revolver, yet, in that brief period of time, the scout had drawn—not only his own revolver, but also a very effectual “bead.”
“Down with that hand!” he ordered. “Don’t you dare say no to me!”
The compelling voice of the scout, no less than the bewildering magic that loaded his right hand with a six-shooter, caused Jack Phelps to gasp. From sheer amazement he suffered the hand to drop.
“That’s right,” said the scout, “but see that you keep that hand where it is. Just remember, Jake Phelps, that what I miss in the original deal I always make up in the draw. You’re a friend of mine, Nate?”
He kept his back to Dunbar and his eyes on Phelps as he asked the question.
“Great guns,” cried the young rancher, “don’t I owe you about everything I’ve got in the world?”
“I wouldn’t put it so strong as that, Nate,” said the scout, with a quiet laugh. “If you’re my friend, though, you’ll put up your gun. I’ll guarantee that Jake Phelps doesn’t take any advantage of you.”
“But you don’t understand——”
“I’m going to understand all about this before I getthrough. In the meantime, you’ll please understand that I have requested you to put up your revolver.”
“She’s up,” said Dunbar promptly.
“Buenos! Now, Nate, kindly talk at the back of my head and tell me the cause of this flare-up.”
Old Nomad was standing in the door, leaning negligently against the door casing and fanning himself with his hat. Pard Buffler was “on the job,” and the trapper realized that there wasn’t any cause for any one to worry. But that peacemaker racket, while all right in its way, wasn’t making much of a hit with Nomad.
“I was sitting here minding my own business,” said Dunbar, “when Jake Phelps came in. He began saying things to r’ile me. His palaver wasn’t thrown at me, but was fired at the clerk. I allowed him to talk about me as much as he pleased, but when he turned his dirty tongue loose on Dick Perry, then on you, and, at the last, dragged in the name of my wife, my patience had reached the limit. He’s a low-down whelp!”
“What did he say about me?” inquired the scout.
“He said you were a meddler in other men’s affairs and——”
“Which was the truth, in a way.”
“It wasn’t so much what he said about you as the way he said it.”
In the West there are some things a man has to say with a smile—if he would avoid gun play.
“Anything else, Nate?” asked the scout.
“Well, he remarked that Dick Perry was a blackguard an——”
“Waugh!” came from the door. “Did he refer ter me with any o’ his fool talk, Nate?”
“No.”
“I’m relieved a hull lot,” grinned the trapper. “Ef he’d er called me a goat, er somethin’ like thet, I mout hev shot him up.”
“Got anything to tell us, Jake?” asked the scout.
“Well, yes,” answered Jake; “you fellers over at the Star-A ranch are a lot of measley tin horns. You can put up a good front, but your work is all rhinecaboo. I rode into town after the H-P pay-roll, and strolled in here to stuff the coin into my saddlebags. I saw Dunbar. What I said, I said so as to show this town he ain’t half a man.” Jake Phelps laughed, and looked around in a cheap attempt at bravado. “He dassen’t fight. Everybody can see that.”
“Anybody can see with half an eye that Nate Dunbar has you beat a mile in everything that makes a man a man. You’re nine-tenths pure guff, Jake, and the other tenth is just plain dog.”
The scout put up his revolver. Phelps was still armed, but the scout looked him squarely in the eye and he made no attempt to use his weapon.
“You’ve got your pay-roll money, have you?” went on Buffalo Bill.
“What business is that of——”
“That’s going far enough. I’ll give you five minutes to get out of town.”
“Ho!” glowered Jake. “You the boss of this town? You gotmore ter say about things in Hackamorethan the sheriff?”
“Never mind that. If you’re not out of town in five minutes, I’ll go gunning for you myself.”
“I’ll take a shot at that meachin’ whelp behind you yet!” gritted Jake. “He can’t make any dead-set at me without getting all that’s coming. I’ll have his scalp,that’s what I’ll have. I’m going to make a widder of Mrs. Dunbar, and then Lige Benner——”
The scout jumped at Phelps, grabbed him by the shoulders, and flung him bodily toward the door. Old Nomad stepped aside and helped him out of the room with a kick. The clerk, who had been on hands and knees behind the counter, carried out Phelps’ saddlebags and threw them after him.
From the hitching pole, where his horse was tied, Jake Phelps swore and howled his threats.
“I’ll square up with you for all this, my buck!” shouted Nate Dunbar, from a window.
“You’ll have to get Buffalo Bill’s permission to call your soul your own before you do,” taunted Jake, tying the bags to the saddle, mounting, and spurring away.
Dunbar turned to the scout with a gloomy face.
“Amigo,” said he, “it would have been better if you’d let me had it out with that skunk.”
“There was nothing to the row, Nate,” the scout answered. “Phelps has had too much red eye, and you lost your temper too easily. Have you finished your work here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better ride for the Star-A ranch, Nate. And don’t forget yourself and take the trail to the Phelps outfit.”
“You know me too well for that,” answered the young rancher. “When I say I’ll do a thing don’t I generally do it?”
“You do,” returned the scout gravely, “and that’s what makes Nate Dunbar stack up so high with me. You’ll leave Jake Phelps alone?”
“Yes.”
“Thet’s ther tork, pard,” approved old Nomad. “Even a measley, no-’count yaller pup like Jake Phelps kin shoot. It would be tough on that Hattie girl if you was wiped out. Go home, Nate, an’ tell ’em out thar ter the ranch thet Buffler an’ Pard Nomad hev struck town and aire already at their peacemakin’.”
Nate pricked up his ears.
“I was wondering why you were here,” said he.
“We’ve come to see Bloom, the sheriff.”
“Bloom’s travelin’ this-a-way as fast as his legs kin kerry him,” spoke up Nomad, taking a squint through the door and up the street.
“Then here’s where I pull out,” said Nate. “There’s no love lost between Bloom and me, and if I met him now and he gave me any of his back talk, the fur would fly. Be back to the ranch soon, Buffalo Bill?”
“To-morrow, I hope.”
Dunbar left the hotel by a rear door. Old Nomad, with a queer grin on his weather-beaten face, pushed into the office and dropped on a chair.
“Now fer more peacemakin’,” he remarked, “an’ from ther looks o’ ther sher’ff, I reckon et’ll be real saloobrious. I’m fixin’ ter enjoy what’s comin’, I am so.”
“There’ll be no trouble,” said the scout, himself taking a seat.
“Waal, ef thar is, I shore reckon they’ll hev ter git another sher’ff ter bloom in this man’s berg.”
A moment later the sheriff rushed into the room. He was at white heat, and the looks he threw at the scout and the trapper were anything but reassuring.
The crowd outside once more clustered about the open door and the windows. There was to be something moredoing, and each spectator held his breath and watched and listened.
“Somebody said there was a row here,” growled Bloom. “I heard up the street that Jake Phelps an’ that pesky trouble maker, Nate Dunbar, was roughin’ it with each other.”
The sheriff was addressing himself to the hotel clerk, but Buffalo Bill took it upon himself to answer.
“They didn’t get so far as an exchange of shots, sheriff. I happened in, just as the affair began to look serious, and ordered Jake Phelps out of town.”
Bloom had whirled away on his heel as soon as the scout began to speak; then, suddenly changing his mind, he whirled back when he had finished.
“You ordered him out o’ town?” he scowled.
“Oh, yes,” answered the scout passively. “If they had both stayed in town there would have been trouble.”
“Tell me this, you who make yourself so high and mighty wherever you happen to plant yourself: What business you got orderin’ anybody out o’ Hackamore?”
A glimmer arose in the scout’s eyes.
“Well,” said he, “if you come to simmer it down to a fine point, I was doing business that you ought to have been around here to attend to.”
“You my deperty?” flared Bloom; “have I ever asked you to help me?”
“No, Bloom; I sort of asked myself.”
“You take my advice, Cody, and keep hands off my work. You and I have come together once, and if that ever happens again, sparks are sure goin’ to fly.”
There was only the clerk in the office, apart from the scout, the trapper, and the sheriff. The spectators keptoutside, confining their view of what was going on to the open door and the windows.
“Right here, then,” said Buffalo Bill, “is where the sparks begin to fly.” He turned to the trapper. “As it may get rather hot for some of the people outside, Nick,” he added, “you’d better close the door.”
“On ther jump, pard,” carolled Nomad.
The trend of affairs was vastly to his liking.
“Leave that door open!” snarled the sheriff.
Nomad’s answer was to slam the door, turn around, and put his back to it.
“How does thet hit ye?” he asked truculently.
“There’s more’n one door,” grunted the sheriff, moving toward the dining-room entrance.
The scout got up and barred the way in that direction. For an instant the sheriff glared, one hand half starting toward his hip.
“I have only the most peaceable intentions, Bloom,” said the scout, as pleasantly as possible. “There’s a little matter I want to talk over with you.”
“There ain’t any matter, little or big, that I want to talk over with you,” snapped Bloom.
“This has to do with your business. From what you’ve just been saying, you’re mighty particular to attend to your own business, seems to me.”
The sheriff grunted and swept his eyes toward the two windows. In each opening were framed as many excited faces as could crowd into it. Bloom felt that the eyes of the town were upon him, that his prestige would suffer if he did not in some way stir himself.
“Sit down,” proceeded the scout; “have a cigar and we’ll smoke a talk.”
There was a friendly smile on Buffalo Bill’s face as he held out a weed.
With a muttered oath the sheriff grabbed the cigar, crushed it in his thick fingers, and flung it in the scout’s face. A gasp came from the faces in the windows.
“Snarlin’ catermounts!” fumed the trapper. “Ef ye don’t make him eat thet cigyar ye ain’t no friend o’ mine.”
The scout was still smiling.
“Sit down, Bloom.”
The voice was as soft as velvet, but it cut like steel.
The sheriff invited the scout to go to a warmer region than the Brazos, and started to brush by in the direction of the rear door.
Then something happened. It happened with a suddenness that deceived the eye.
One moment Bloom was pushing for the rear door, and the next he was sprawled in a chair, and the scout had the revolver that had been dangling from his belt.
A titter came from the windows, and a whoop from old Nomad.
“Et ain’t well ter fool with We, Us an’ Comp’ny when we’re loaded,” exulted the trapper, “er when we’re out spreadin’ harmony an’ good will up an’ down ther Brazos.”
The sheriff’s face was as black as a thundercloud. He realized fully the ignominy of his position—and, quite as fully, his own helplessness.
“More of your high-handed proceedings,” he ground out. “Some day you’ll get jumped on good and proper for your meddlin’, and after that you’ll ’tend to your own business an’ let other folks’ business alone.”
“Some day,” said the scout, “but not to-day. Try andbe a gentleman, Bloom. I reckon it’ll be hard for you, but, anyhow, make the effort.”
The sheriff was beside himself with anger; in fact, he was so wrought up that words failed him. He gurgled and glared. Old Nomad stood at the door surveying the sheriff with great satisfaction.
“Ther further we go on this hyar peacemakin’ tour, Buffler,” he remarked, “ther better I like et.”
“Bloom,” pursued the scout, “a little history has been made during the last few days, and one detail of it I am going to offer for your attention. A man by the name of Ace Hawkins was shot and killed by a fellow calling himself Red Steve.”
“You can’t tell me a thing I don’t know,” snorted the sheriff. “Ace Hawkins was a desperado—he deserved all he got, no matter who gave it to him.”
“Wrong, in two ways. Hawkins was not a desperado. He was a man who was doing his best to further the cause of right and justice. Error number one for you. Whether or not he deserved the fate that overtook him, however, need command little of our attention. It was not Red Steve’s place to hand out his destiny with the point of a six-shooter. What have you done to apprehend Red Steve?”
“Nothin’, and I won’t do anythin’.”
“Why not? Aren’t you sworn to look after the law in this county?”
“It ain’t part o’ my duty to take advice from you.”
“I’m going to tell you a few things, Bloom. Red Steve works for Lige Benner, and you’ve a notion that Lige Benner wanted Ace Hawkins sponged off the slate. You’re a friend of Benner’s. You think it will please Benner if you don’t take any action against Red Steve.Probably you’re right in your surmise, but you’re ’way wrong in letting yourself be swayed by your likes and dislikes in a matter that touches upon your duty as sheriff. You’d better take my advice and help me and my pards lay Red Steve by the heels.”
This was straight talk, and as logical as it was straight. Bloom knew the scout had the right end of the argument, and he hated to have the men outside hear him lectured in just that way. The scout had purposely raised his voice and spoken deliberately and clearly, in order that his words might carry, and his full meaning reach the ears of the townspeople.
“Confound you and your advice!” barked Bloom. “I know what my duty is a heap better’n you, and I’m here to stand by it.”
“Will you stand by your duty, in this case,” fenced the scout, “or will you stand by Lige Benner and Red Steve?”
“I ain’t goin’ to tell you what I’ll do. What’s more, I’ve got enough o’ this talk.”
“Then you’re going to get more than enough, Bloom, because I’m not more than half done. In shielding Red Steve you’re trying to shield Lige Benner. You’re afraid that if you press matters against Red Steve that it will be shown that Lige Benner had at least a guilty knowledge of Red Steve’s murderous intentions against Hawkins. Isn’t that it?”
Steadily, relentlessly, the sheriff was being forced into a tight corner. It was like a trial. Bloom, accused of dereliction of duty, was being catechised by the scout, and the townspeople outside were the jury. Between duty and private desire the unfortunate sheriff writhed and sputtered.
“I’m not going to take any more talk from you,” he shouted. “There’s a hull lot to this Red Steve matter you don’t know anything about.”
“I know all about it,” declared the scout, “much more, in fact, than you do.”
“How do you know Red Steve did that shooting?”
“Ace Hawkins said so.”
“That’s what you say,” sneered the sheriff.
“There are others who heard Hawkins make his statement, and they will bear me out. Wild Bill Hickok, for one——”
“He’s your pard. I wouldn’t believe him any quicker’n I’d believe you.”
Old Nomad’s gorge was rising. The sheriff was a coyote, and Buffalo Bill was putting up with too much from him. He made an attempt to slip in a few words, but the scout looked toward him and waved him to silence.
“There’s the sky pilot, Jordan,” went on the scout. “He’ll back up my statement. I reckon there’s not a man on the Brazos who would refuse to believe the sky pilot.”
This statement rather floored the sheriff.
“When the sky pilot talks to me,” said he, “then I’ll know what to think, but——”
Just here the door opened at old Nomad’s back. He turned quickly to deny the newcomer entrance, but recoiled when he saw who was coming into the office.
“Benner!” exclaimed old Nomad, wondering what this new move was to signify.
“Benner!” cried Bloom, jumping to his feet.
Benner pushed on into the room and came to a halt within a short distance of the scout.
“Yes, Benner,” said the cattle baron. “I’ve come here to say that Buffalo Bill is right. Red Steve was the man who did the trick for Ace Hawkins. Is that enough for you, Bloom?”
The scout was surprised by this totally unexpected coming of Lige Benner—surprised, perhaps, far more by his appearance and his words than by the mere fact of his presence.
There was a haggard, careworn look in Benner’s face—an earnestness in his manner that contrasted strongly with his spectacular attire.
If the scout was surprised by Benner’s words, the sheriff seemed even more so. He stared.
“Come again with that, Benner,” said he.
“I’ve been standing outside listening to what was going on in here,” continued Benner. “The time came when I thought I ought to take part in the talk. Red Steve is guilty of shooting Ace Hawkins. I had nothing to do with the crime, and knew nothing about it until it was accomplished. Both men worked for me. Red Steve himself told me he was guilty, and tried to find excuse for what he had done by saying that Ace Hawkins was a traitor, that he was working for me and trying to help Perry and Dunbar. That, of course, was no excuse at all. I told him he would have to come to Hackamore and stand trial. It was my intention to bring him myself, but he escaped on foot from the ranch and, at the present moment, is somewhere on the Brazos, a fugitive. I rode to town to get you to take up the pursuit of Red Steve. It’s up to you, Bloom.”
Lige Benner dropped wearily into a chair and drew one hand across his forehead. Bloom continued to stare at him, Nomad regarded him with suspicion, and onlythe scout—adept at reading motives in a man’s face—gave him approval.
“That’s the talk, Benner!” the scout exclaimed.
“Don’t ye bank too much on his tork, Buffler,” put in the old trapper. “Lige Benner is tricky; he’s showed himself ter be a snake in the grass right along; an’ how d’ye know he ain’t got somethin’ up his sleeve right now? Don’t give him a chance ter trap ye.”
Benner flung himself around in his chair, but the fierce protest faded from his face as he looked at Nomad.
“I’ve made mistakes, I reckon,” said Benner slowly, “a lot of ’em, but I’m not making any mistake now, old Nomad, and don’t you make any. I’m tired of this squabbling in the cattle country. I’ll admit I never liked Perry or Dunbar. They blew in here and spoiled one of the objects I had set my heart on achieving. I did everything I could to carry out that object, but the scout and his pards made that impossible; then, listening to advisers, I set out to secure revenge. There I failed again. My hands are in the air. Now I want Red Steve captured, so it can be proved that I had nothing to do with what happened to Ace Hawkins.”
“If he’s captured,” returned the scout, “are you willing to cry quits in this fight on Perry and Dunbar? Will you be for peace in the cattle country, Benner?”
“I’m for peace now,” was the reply; “if I hadn’t been I shouldn’t have come here as I did to-day.”
“I believe you,” said the scout quietly. “Have you any idea where Red Steve can be found, or what he intends to do?”
“If he is hunted for at once, he’ll be found somewhere on the Brazos. He got away, as I said, on foot. Since he has no horse, about the first move he makeswill be to get a mount somewhere. After he does that it will be hard to capture him. He knows this country like a book, and he’ll hole himself away where he’ll never be found.”
“My pards are looking for Red Steve on the river,” proceeded the scout. “If he’s there, you can gamble that they’ll find him.”
“I’ve sent out some of my cowboys to prosecute the search. Between them and your pards, Buffalo Bill, the chances seem pretty fair for taking the scoundrel. You understand my attitude? There may be a suspicion that I was back of Red Steve in the shooting of Ace Hawkins. I want that suspicion brushed aside and my entire innocence made clear. Red Steve is the one to do this. Whatever else I have done, I’ve never tried to get any man’s blood on my hands. I’ve gone far in this war with Perry and Dunbar, but never so far as that.”
A sneer curled Bloom’s lip as he gazed at Benner.
“Lost your nerve, have you?” he rasped.
Benner lifted his eyes to Bloom’s.
“You’ll find,” said he, “that I have plenty of nerve to avenge any insult you heave at me. Walk softly, Bloom, when you’re going over my feet. That’s my advice to you. So far as Dunbar and Perry are concerned. I’ve buried the hatchet; but, so far as you are concerned, I’ll dig it up if you give me half a chance. Spread your blankets and go to sleep on that.”
Benner’s spirit was not broken. There was plenty of snap and ginger in his words. It was clear to the scout that the cattle baron was swerved by only one motive, and that was to have Red Steve captured, so that the owner of the Circle-B ranch would be cleared of the taking off of Ace Hawkins.
The capture of Red Steve, therefore, had become a factor in the business Buffalo Bill was so anxious to accomplish—the peace of the Brazos country.
“I’m mighty glad,” scowled Bloom, in no wise relishing the manner of the cattle baron, “that Hank Phelps is still got the nerve to hold his grudge against Perry and Dunbar.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Benner. “Phelps is a friend of mine, and I’m going to see him to-morrow. I think he’ll promise to coöperate with me in establishing peace on the Brazos. He’s about as tired of these foolish squabbles as I am.”
He got up and moved toward the door.
“We’re on good terms now, Buffalo Bill?” he asked, halting at the threshold.
“Yes,” answered the scout.
“Well, I’ve gone on record. All these men”—he waved his hand toward the faces in the windows—“are witnesses. From now on, Perry and Dunbar will receive from me the same treatment other ranchers on the river give each other. That shot goes as it lays.”
He left the hotel, and could be seen making his way through the crowd in front.
“Gi’me that gun!” snapped Bloom, stretching out his hand to the scout.
The weapon was handed over without comment. Then Bloom himself started for the door.
“Has he got the right ter leave, Buffler?” asked Nomad.
The scout nodded. The trapper stepped aside, and Bloom flung out of the office. Nomad came over and dropped down in a chair beside the scout.
“Waugh!” he muttered. “Blamed ef we didn’t gitout o’ thet without er fight. I never thort we would, one spell. But I ain’t takin’ none too much stock in this hyar flop o’ Benner’s. Et’s too suddent.”
“Benner’s all right, Nick,” averred Buffalo Bill, with confidence.
“Shore he ain’t figgerin’ on somethin’?”
“I’m sure he is figuring on something. The shooting of Ace Hawkins might have far-reaching results for him; so he wants Red Steve captured, so he can be forced to tell the truth.”
“Sufferin’ twisters! Why, Benner hired Red Steve in the fust place bekase he was a desperado, an’ willin’ ter do any leetle job a honest cowpuncher might shy around. Now thet Red Steve’s done jest what Benner mout hev knowed he’d do, Benner gits what looks like an attack o’ narves. I kain’t b’leeve in et, not complete.”
“I never thought Benner was so desperate as some folks tried to make out,” Buffalo Bill answered. “He has his good points, Nick.”
“Up ter now,” said Nomad dryly, “he’s been purty successful keepin’ his good p’ints buried out o’ sight. But I’m s’prised at one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Why, Bloom an’ Benner ain’t the team I thort they was. They ain’t pullin’ tergether like they was well matched.”
“It looks as though we’d been a little wide of our trail, old pard,” said the scout. “We’ve been thinking, all along, that Bloom, by his ugly actions, was trying to keep on the right side of Lige Benner. I think, come to sift the reasons close to bed rock, that Bloom is in the game against Perry and Dunbar just because he hates the Star-A ranchers. He’s taken a dislike tothem—to Nate in particular—and that’s why he acts as he does.”
“Mebbyso. He’s ’er whelp. He’d do a heap ter land on Nate somehow. I’m bettin’——”
A pounding of hoofs out in front, suddenly brought to a stop, a concerted rush of the men around the hotel toward the hitching pole, and a wild voice suddenly lifted, caused the old trapper to break off his remarks. The voice, husky with excitement, floated into the office through the open front door.
“Where’s a doctor? I want a doctor on the jump!”
Buffalo Bill and old Nomad, at this startling summons, left their chairs and went to the door.
A cowboy, his horse lathered and panting painfully, was at a halt before the hotel. A crowd of curious men surrounded him.
“I’ll go fer a doctor,” said Sim Pierce, and hustled off without waiting for further news.
“What’s the matter?” asked the scout.
“I was lopin’ inter town with a pard,” replied the cowboy, “when we found Jake Phelps’ hoss, without no saddle, runnin’ to’rds ther ranch. A mile farder we found Jake hisself, layin’ face down in the trail. He come in arter the pay-rool money, an’ the money was gone. Jake was about gone, too, an’ he may be clean gone by now. I left Jeems with him, while I hit the breeze fer a sawbones. We gotter have the doc in er hurry, an’ mebby it won’t do no good at that.”
This news hit the scout between the eyes. Already the bystanders were exchanging significant glances.
The scout grabbed Nomad’s arm and pulled him back into the office.
“This looks bad, pard,” he whispered.
“Ye don’t think Nate had anythin’ ter do with what happened ter Jake Phelps?” gasped the old trapper.
“Certainly not, but there are others who’ll think so—after what happened between Nate and Jake Phelps here in Hackamore. Take my word for it, Bloom will be the first one to voice the suspicion.”