The news had swept through town already, and as the brothers walked down the street a hundred men stopped to shake hands with and congratulate them. But even now they whispered their approval. It was possible Dutch might survive his wounds, in which case they were prepared to resume ostensible neutrality. The killer’s name was one that sent the chills down the backs of even courageous men. He was more deadly than a rattlesnake because he usually did not give warning before he struck. CHAPTER VII VICKY TELLS SECRETS After what had just taken place at the Crystal Palace the bright sunshine of Nevada was welcome to both brothers. Inside the gambling house had been unwholesome excitement, passion, the dregs of cruel murder lust, and the shadow of death. In the open street were friendly faces, a sane world going about its business, and God’s sun in the heavens. The McClintocks had probably snuffed out a life. It had been one horribly distorted by evil. None the less, it shook their composure to have sent even such a soul to its last account. They wanted, if possible, to forget completely the look on the face of that huge figure collapsing upon the table. A little girl stood squarely in front of them on the broken sidewalk. To the casual eye she appeared all patches, flying hair, and knobby legs. There was the shy wildness of a captured forest creature in her manner, but in her small body the McClintocks sensed, too, a dauntless spirit. “Mister Goodmans,” she said, addressing them both, “don’t you ’member me?” “Of course. You’re Vicky,” Scot told her. She came directly to business. “Rob, he’s ’most always drunk ’n we ain’t got nothin’ to eat. Mollie ’n me’s jist awful hungry.” “Hungry? Good Lord!” cried Hugh. His brother took charge of the situation. “Go in to Groton’s with Vicky and get her a good dinner. I’ll see what supplies I can pick up and go down to the wagon with them.” In front of the Delta saloon Scot met a Washoe Indian. He was carrying a half a sack of wild onions he had brought to town to trade. McClintock did business with him on the spot. At Lyman Jones’s store the faro dealer bought some rice and coffee. He also induced the merchant to let him have the last five pounds of flour he had in stock. With these supplies he tramped to the edge of town to the place where the Dodsons had moved their camp. He ploughed through heavy sand, up a steep slope of shale and loose rubble, to a narrow flat where the prairie schooner stood. Mollie Dodson must have heard him coming, for as he reached the wagon she called from within: “Did you find Rob, Vicky?” Perhaps the firmness of his tread told her at once of her mistake. She leaned out of the open flap and caught sight of Scot. Into her white face the colour beat in waves. Startled eyes held to his with a surprised question in them. “I—I was looking for Vicky,” she said.