“Did the boys tell you anything about the young man who visited Henry Livingstone now and then?” “No. They were not very communicative.” “I suppose they wouldn't tell. Yet I don't see, unless--” She stopped, lost in some field of speculation where he could not follow her. “You know, we haven't much excitement here, and when this boy was first seen around the place--he was here mostly in the summer--we decided that he was a relative. I don't know why we considered him mysterious, unless it was because he was hardly ever seen. I don't even know that that was deliberate. For that matter Mr. Livingstone wasn't much more than a name to us.” “You mean, a son?” “Nobody knew. He was here only now and then.” Bassett moved in his chair and looked at her. “How old do you suppose this boy was?” he asked. “He was here at different times. When Mr. Livingstone died I suppose he was in his twenties. The thing that makes it seem odd to me is that the men didn't mention him to you.” “I didn't ask about him, of course.” She went on with her sewing, apparently intending to drop the matter; but the reporter felt that now and then she was subjecting him to a sharp scrutiny, and that, in some shrewd woman-fashion, she was trying to place him. “You said it was a matter of some property?” “Yes.” “But it's rather late, isn't it? Ten years?” “That's what makes it difficult.” There was another silence, during which she evidently made her decision. “I have never said this before, except to Mr. Wasson. But I believe he was here when Henry Livingstone died.” Her tone was mysterious, and Bassett stared at her. “You don't think Livingstone was murdered!” “No. He died of heart failure. There was an autopsy. But he had a bad cut on his head. Of course, he may have fallen--Bill and Jake were away. They'd driven some cattle out on the range. It was two days before he was found, and it would have been longer if Mr. Wasson hadn't ridden out to talk to him about buying. He found him dead in his bed, but there was blood on the floor in the next room. I washed it up myself.” “Of course,” she added, when Bassett maintained a puzzled silence, “I may be all wrong. He might have fallen in the next room and dragged himself to bed. But he was very neatly covered up.” “It's your idea, then, that this boy put him into the bed?” “I don't know. He wasn't seen about the place. He's never been here since. But the posse found a horse with the Livingstone brand, saddled, dead in Dry River Canyon when it was looking for Judson Clark. Of course, that was a month later. The men here, Bill and Jake, claimed it had wandered off, but I've often wondered.”