griddle if they turn their backs," Mrs. Brassfield said.
She didn't look at Shad, but she aimed the observation at him as directly as if she drew a bead on a squirrel. Shad was preparing to rivet a broken tug, which he had stretched on the bench between his bony legs. Her irony passed over him without making him blink.
"I was over in Pawnee yisterday, first time in a month, I guess. Lot of changes goin' on over there. Munroe, he's gone."
"Munroe? Who in the dickens is Munroe?"
"The feller that had the livery."
"Munroe, was it? I didn't know his name."
"One of his names; he changed it every time he stole ahorse. Yes, Munroe he's gone. He sold out when he heard you was goin' to git well. He's the feller that shot you in the back—I reckon you know."
"No, I didn't know," Bill admitted. He looked at the floor in his deep-thinking way, as if the news had started a train of somber reflection.
"He made his blow around town he done it. He thought then you'd peg out. And Vic Gilroy, he's dusted it, too."
"I didn't know him," Dunham said, shaking his gloomy head.
"He's the feller that put up the brag he got you in the leg when you made that break out of the boxcar—the feller Zora pulled out and took a shot at. Yes, and she'd 'a' got him, too, if Randall hadn't 'a' jiggered her arm."
"Zora?" Bill looked up, such startled surprise in his
