Some one found Roaring Rigby in a restaurant and told him what had happened. He left his meal and hurried to the saloon, shouldering his way into the little room. Rigby was mad; he knew his rights. He turned on English Ed, who leaned against the wall, his face a trifle more white than usual.“Who the hell brought that body here?” demanded Roaring.“We did,” said English. “There was a crowd of us.”“You did, eh?” Roaring hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared at the gambler. “A crowd of you, eh? Tromped all over everythin’, eh? Picked him right up. Hell, a sheriff has a fat chance of findin’ out anythin’. Don’tcha suppose I’d like to have seen him where he laid?”“What’s the use?” said English Ed coldly. “That half-breed Conley went out to get him.”Roaring Rigby squinted closely at English Ed for a moment before turning to the crowd.“Git out of here,” he ordered. “No, you stay here, Ed.”He moved them all out, closed the door tightly and turned to the gambler.“What about Pete Conley?”In a few words the gambler told him about the trouble, but made no mention of his trouble with Jimmy Moran. Roaring listened closely.“Did Mallette steal that card, English?” he asked.The gambler shrugged his shoulders.“I didn’t see the play. Jimmy Moran saw the play, but wasn’t sure. He was the one who was supposed to have discarded that king of hearts. Mallette was drinking and—”“Had a right to steal a card, I suppose.”“I didn’t say that!”“You meant it. Did Mallette carry a gun?”“I’ve never seen him with one. He had none on him when we found him. Conley murdered him.”Roaring Rigby took a deep breath, rather a jerky one.“Murder? Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” softly.“The damn half-breed!” exclaimed English Ed under his breath.“Blood don’t make no difference,” said Roaring quickly. “The law don’t draw no color line, English.”“The law be damned! Mallette was murdered. Mallette was a gambler—one of my men. Judge Beal would turn Conley loose. He’d never hang a man for killing a gambler.”“Old Judge Beal is a square-shooter, English. Nobody can say he ain’t honest. But he ain’t hangin’ nobody unless they need it.”“Well, he better keep his nose out of my business.”“Yeah, I s’pose. You better send somebody for a doctor. Old Doc Shelley is the coroner; so you better get him, not that he can do Mallette any good, but to make it legal.”They opened the door and walked out into the saloon. Business was at a standstill. A knot of girls stood near the honkatonk platform, talking in subdued voices, and a crowd of cowboys and gamblers were at the bar. For once, thewhirrof the roulette-wheel and the clatter of chips were stilled.Roaring Rigby walked past the long bar, and a cowboy called to him:“If you want to save that half-breed for trial, you better start travelin’, Rigby.”It was Mark Clayton, of the Big 4 outfit. Roaring turned and looked at Clayton.“And you better sober up and go home,” said Roaring. “This is a man’s job—and you ain’t dry behind the ears.”Roaring walked straight across the street to a general store. He knew the crowd in the Black Horse would watch to see what he would do. Straight through the store he went, opened a back door and headed around to his stable, which was behind the sheriff’s office.He knew the crowd in the saloon was planning either to go out to the Hot Creek ranch after Pete Conley, or to take Pete away from him when he brought him to jail. Roaring saddled his sorrel gelding, circled the town and headed for the Conley ranch, riding swiftly.
Some one found Roaring Rigby in a restaurant and told him what had happened. He left his meal and hurried to the saloon, shouldering his way into the little room. Rigby was mad; he knew his rights. He turned on English Ed, who leaned against the wall, his face a trifle more white than usual.
“Who the hell brought that body here?” demanded Roaring.
“We did,” said English. “There was a crowd of us.”
“You did, eh?” Roaring hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared at the gambler. “A crowd of you, eh? Tromped all over everythin’, eh? Picked him right up. Hell, a sheriff has a fat chance of findin’ out anythin’. Don’tcha suppose I’d like to have seen him where he laid?”
“What’s the use?” said English Ed coldly. “That half-breed Conley went out to get him.”
Roaring Rigby squinted closely at English Ed for a moment before turning to the crowd.
“Git out of here,” he ordered. “No, you stay here, Ed.”
He moved them all out, closed the door tightly and turned to the gambler.
“What about Pete Conley?”
In a few words the gambler told him about the trouble, but made no mention of his trouble with Jimmy Moran. Roaring listened closely.
“Did Mallette steal that card, English?” he asked.
The gambler shrugged his shoulders.
“I didn’t see the play. Jimmy Moran saw the play, but wasn’t sure. He was the one who was supposed to have discarded that king of hearts. Mallette was drinking and—”
“Had a right to steal a card, I suppose.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You meant it. Did Mallette carry a gun?”
“I’ve never seen him with one. He had none on him when we found him. Conley murdered him.”
Roaring Rigby took a deep breath, rather a jerky one.
“Murder? Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” softly.
“The damn half-breed!” exclaimed English Ed under his breath.
“Blood don’t make no difference,” said Roaring quickly. “The law don’t draw no color line, English.”
“The law be damned! Mallette was murdered. Mallette was a gambler—one of my men. Judge Beal would turn Conley loose. He’d never hang a man for killing a gambler.”
“Old Judge Beal is a square-shooter, English. Nobody can say he ain’t honest. But he ain’t hangin’ nobody unless they need it.”
“Well, he better keep his nose out of my business.”
“Yeah, I s’pose. You better send somebody for a doctor. Old Doc Shelley is the coroner; so you better get him, not that he can do Mallette any good, but to make it legal.”
They opened the door and walked out into the saloon. Business was at a standstill. A knot of girls stood near the honkatonk platform, talking in subdued voices, and a crowd of cowboys and gamblers were at the bar. For once, thewhirrof the roulette-wheel and the clatter of chips were stilled.
Roaring Rigby walked past the long bar, and a cowboy called to him:
“If you want to save that half-breed for trial, you better start travelin’, Rigby.”
It was Mark Clayton, of the Big 4 outfit. Roaring turned and looked at Clayton.
“And you better sober up and go home,” said Roaring. “This is a man’s job—and you ain’t dry behind the ears.”
Roaring walked straight across the street to a general store. He knew the crowd in the Black Horse would watch to see what he would do. Straight through the store he went, opened a back door and headed around to his stable, which was behind the sheriff’s office.
He knew the crowd in the saloon was planning either to go out to the Hot Creek ranch after Pete Conley, or to take Pete away from him when he brought him to jail. Roaring saddled his sorrel gelding, circled the town and headed for the Conley ranch, riding swiftly.