“Lucian took a swallow of the whiskey and licked his lips. “The one brother doesn’t seem too upset about his dead brother, and I’m starting to think this family might be a little bubble off plumb, but I get the address of the shooter and throw Cain in back of the Nash. On the drive over, he’s telling me that he didn’t have anything to do with killing Abel and that he didn’t even help the shooter dump the body—made him do it himself. Took some kind of strange moral stand on that one, I guess.” The old sheriff rolled his eyes. “Well, Ludlow Coontz, the shooter, is this big, dumb-lookin’ bulldogger, two hundred and seventy pounds if he was an ounce, and this is before I had yon man-mountain over there.”
Book:The Western Star
