He turned and went, toward a car that was stopping at the other pump. His colleague took a step and said, "Two-sixty-three," and I reached for my wallet.

When we were under way again, heading northeast, I asked Lily, "Well?"

"I pass," she said. "I wanted to have a look at him, that's all right, but you told me once that it's stupid to suppose looking at a man will help you decide if he's a murderer. I don't want to be stupid and I pass. But what he said? That it's an insult?"

"Oh, that." I bore right at a fork. "He can shoot all right. Three people have told me so. And any damn fool knows that if you're going to plug a man, not just hurt him, kill him, you don't go for his shoulder. Or his neck either. But he may also be sharp. He might have figured it that everybody knew he was a good shot, so he made it look as if he wasn't. He had had plenty of time to think it over."

She considered that for a couple of miles and then asked, "Are you sure he knew that Brodell had-that he was the father of her baby?"

"Hell, everybody in Lame Horse knew it. And beyond. Of course they also knew that Gil Haight was set on her. Last Tuesday-no, Wednesday-he told a man that he still wanted to marry her and was going to."

"That's love for you. The sharp right is just ahead."

I said I knew it.

The twenty-four miles from Timberburg to Lame Horse was all blacktop except for two short stretches-one where it dived down into a deep gully and up again, and one where winters pushed so much rock through and around that they had quit trying to keep it surfaced. For the first few miles out of Timberburg there were some trees and bushes, then broken range for the rest of the way.