“Two thousand!  Did he say two thousand?”

Kirby leaned forward eagerly.

“That’s what he said.  Two thousand,” answered Olson.

“Then that explains why he drew so much from the bank that day.”

“I had it figured out so.  If the woman hadn’t come at him with that acid tongue of hers he’d intended to buy Hull off cheap.  But she got his gorge up.  He wouldn’t stand for her line of talk.”

“What took place then?” the cattleman questioned.

“Still without rising from the chair, Cunningham ordered them to get out.  Hull was standin’ kinda close to him.  He had his back to me.  Cunningham reached out an’ opened a drawer of the stand beside him.  The fat man took a step forward.  I could see his gun flash in the light.  He swung it down on yore uncle’s head an’ the old man crumpled up.”

“So it was Hull killed him, after all,” Kirby said, drawing a long breath of relief.

Then, to his surprise when he thought about it later, a glitter of malicious cunning lit the eyes of the rancher.

“That’s what I’m tellin’ you.  It was Hull.  I stood there an’ saw just what I’ve been givin’ you.”

“Was my uncle senseless then?”

“You bet he was.  His head sagged clear over against the back of the chair.”

“What did they do then?”

“That’s where I drop out.  Mrs. Hull stepped straight to the window.  I crouched down back of the railin’.  It was dark an’ she didn’t see me.  She pulled the blind down.  I waited there awhile an’ afterward there was the sound of a shot.  That would be when they sent the bullet through the old man’s brain.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t know what to do.  I’d talked a lot of wild talk about how Cunningham ought to be shot or strung up to a pole.  If I went to the police with my story, like enough they ’d light on me as the killer.  I milled the whole thing over.  After a while I went into a public booth downtown an’ ’phoned to the police.  You recollect maybe the papers spoke about the man who called up headquarters with the news of Cunningham’s death.”

“Yes, I recollect that all right.”

Kirby did not smile.  He did not explain that he was the man.  But he resolved to find out whether two men had notified the police of his uncle’s death.  If not, Olson was lying in at least one detail.  He had a suspicion that the man had not given him the whole truth.  He was telling part of it, but he was holding back something.  A sly and furtive look in his eyes helped to build this impression in the mind of the man who listened to the story.

“You didn’t actually see Hull fire the shot that killed my uncle, then?”

Olson hesitated, a fraction of a second.  “No.”

“You don’t know that it was he that fired it.”

“No, it might ‘a’ been the woman.  But it ain’t likely he handed her the gun to do it with, is it?  For that matter I don’t know that the crack over the head didn’t kill Cunningham.  Maybe it did.”