“I remember that holster, for one thing,” the rancher said. “I saw that, and right away…” He took a deep breath. “Johns wore that 24/7, I think. Always wore that damn gun, everywhere he went. Always.” He looked at Gastner. “You probably remember that.” “I do, as a matter of fact.” Estelle reached to the back of her belt and slipped the small hand-held radio free, keying the transmit pad. “Sheriff, can you come down here for a minute?” She watched as Torrez straightened up from what he was doing and looked down the mesa side at her. “We have some information, sir.” Torrez waved a hand, tapped the transmit pad once so his radio squelched a burst of static, and headed down the hill. Bill Gastner’s left arm was cradled across his belly, giving support for his right. He rested his chin on the knuckles of his right hand, regarding Miles Waddell like an old Bassett hound waiting for the chase. The rancher started to say something, but Gastner held up his hand, then with a wonderful economy of motion, bent his right index finger to point toward the approaching sheriff.
