“Excuse me, sir?”

      Henry turned to see a man with owlish glasses standing there, squinting against the morning sun.

      “Wayne Hewlett with the Messenger, the local paper,” he said. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

      Henry frowned. “What about?”

      “You’re Whispering Smith, right?”

      He looked at the reporter suspiciously. “I am Henry Smith.”

      Hewlett pulled out a notepad. “Can you comment on the tracking you did for the Sheriff’s Department at the murder scene? Did you find anything to help with the investigation?”

      “No, I can’t really comment on that,” Henry said, hoping to discourage further questions.

      “Then how about your tracking skills? Did you learn all about that in Colorado, catching cattle thieves?”

      “Where did you hear that?”

      Hewlett didn’t relent. “Is it true?”

      “Not exactly,” Henry said.

      “How did you get the nickname of Whispering Smith?”
      "Because I don't talk much." Henry abrupltly walked away. He crossed High Street and climbed into his truck before Hewlett tried to follow.