Wind River Jim rode down to the office, tied his horse to the little hitch-rack, spat vigorously, unlocked the door and went in. He sent his tall Stetson spinning toward a nail, missed it by three feet, sat down in the rickety swivel chair, hooked his feet over a corner of the desk, and yawned.“Well, I’ve reached my height,” he said aloud. “Officer of the law, and I’ve got a badge to prove it. Next thing I know I’ll be a Senator or some other funny thing, and you never can tell where I’ll go from there. Hello, yourself!”Jefferson Ryker, prosecuting attorney of Black Horse, stepped inside the office and looked curiously at Wind River. Ryker was above average height, but was very thin. He wore tall white collars and a stringy black bow tie. The collar was big enough to give ample play to his Adam’s apple. His suit was a rusty black and would have fitted him had he been fifty pounds heavier.Ryker was rather an old-timer in the country. For a number of years he had operated an assay office in Turquoise City, but with the falling off of the mining industry he had devoted himself to the law, had been admitted to the state bar and was now serving his third term as prosecutor. “Mica” Jones, formerly assistant to Ryker in the assay business, was running the assay office for Ryker, and barely making a living.Wind River Jim did not like Ryker. He took one look at him and groaned slightly; but otherwise he remained silent, after his first greeting, which had not been returned by Jefferson Ryker. The prosecutor stepped back to the doorway and looked up the street.“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked.“He’s eatin’ breakfast.”Ryker leaned against the doorway and examined a cigar, which was rather badly unwrapped. He licked it gently in spots, trying to work the wrapper back into place. Finally he lighted it and puffed convulsively, but got no results.“Anythin’ you want around here?” queried Wind River. “I’m doin’ the sheriffin’ while Roarin’ Rigby nourishes.”“You are?” Ryker looked curiously at Wind River, who gave him plenty of opportunity to see the nickel-plated badge.“Oh, I see.” Ryker came back closer to Wind River. “All right, Wind River, I want to see the prisoner.”“The prisoner?”“Yes—Pete Conley.”“Huh!” snorted Wind River. “Well, now, from where I set, you’ve got a fine chance, Ryker.”“I have a right to see him!” snapped the lawyer.“Yea-a-a-ah, the devil you have!”Wind River jerked his feet off the desk and faced Ryker.“Your rights and wrongs don’t mean nothin’ to me. If you keep your hat on until I let you see Pete Conley, they’ll have to saw it off when you’re dead.”“I wonder how Roaring Rigby ever happened to appoint such an ignorant person,” said the lawyer.“Because he couldn’t trust the smart ones, that’s why. The smarter they are the crookeder they are, Ryker, and I’ve heard that you’re the smartest man in this valley.”Ryker walked back to the door, boiling with wrath.“I’m going to find the sheriff,” he said hotly. “You can’t call me a crook and get away with it.”“Well, you’re a friend of English Ed.”“What has that got to do with it?”“He’s crooked. You never see a lot of lambs hobnobbin’ with a coyote, do you?”Ryker whirled on his heel and left the office.Wind River Jim chuckled to himself as he uncoiled his length from the creaking old chair and walked over to a cracked mirror on the wall. He looked intently at himself.“You don’t look crazy to me,” he told himself, “but you must be. Appearances are shore deceptive. But I don’t like that cat-eyed lawyer, and it was a good chance to let him know it. Anybody who didn’t know me would think I was mean as dirt.”The jail adjoined the sheriff’s office, and there was no exit, except through the sheriff’s office. The front of the jail was a blank wall. At the side and rear were small barred windows, not large enough for a man to crawl through. It was not a well ventilated jail, it is true, but it was built to hold a prisoner.Roaring Rigby came back a few minutes later, carrying a tray of food for Pete Conley.“This is your job after this, Wind River,” he said, placing the tray on the desk. “What did you say to Ryker?”“He wanted to see Pete,” grinned Wind River. “I told him to go to hell.”Roaring grinned widely.“I thought so. He shore was sore as a boil. Met me at the door of the restaurant and jumped all over me about you.”“The devil he did! What did you say, Roarin’?”“Me? I slapped his old face loose from his hat. Mebby that wasn’t exactly the right thing for a sheriff to do, but it’s all I could think of at the time. I never took no oath of office. Anyway, I don’t think there’s anythin’ in the oath about not slappin’ lawyers. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Let’s feed the animal.”They unlocked the door into the jail and carried the tray in. There was a short hall, about six feet wide, across the room, at each side of which were barred doors. Pete Conley leaned against the bars of one cell, smoking a cigaret.“Got you some ham and eggs, Pete,” said the sheriff cheerfully.“Good!” said the half-breed. “What’s new?”Roaring unlocked the door and put the tray on a chair.“Nothin’ much. English Ed’s gang is pretty sore. They rode all night. Ha-haha-ha! Aw, they’ll cool off. Last night they was in a lynchin’ mood, tha’s all. Ryker wants to see you, Pete. Jist remember he’s the jigger that’ll try to hang you. Don’t tell him a thing,sabe? You don’t have to talk.”Pete nodded quickly.“I like see Judge Beal.”“You can’t, Pete; he’s the judge.”“He’s good man.”“Uh-huh—shore, but he can’t see you until you walk into his courtroom. You’ll have to hire a lawyer, I reckon.”“What for?”“To prove you didn’t kill Mallette.”“What lawyer see who kill him?”“Oh, hell, there you are, Wind River!” exploded Roaring. “Can you imagine that? What lawyer seen who shot him?”“I dunno,” said Wind River innocently. “Did any?”Roaring stared open-mouthed at Wind River. Finally he closed his mouth and shook his head sadly.“Well, I reckon it’s all right,” he said resignedly. “I hired you because you was honest, Wind River.”“My old man come town yet?” asked Pete, beginning to eat.“Not yet.”“Huh! How soon they hang me?”“Are you in any hurry, Pete?”“Not much.”“Well, that’s fine. They’ll have to try you first, so you’ll jist have to be patient. First they’ll give you a hearin’ and decide if yo’re worth hangin’. Then they’ll hold the trial and see when you git hung. It’ll take quite a while.”“Nobody ask me if I kill Mallette,” said Pete, his mouth filled with food. “I like kill him pretty good, but somebody kill him. He stole my money.”“You like to kill him, eh?”“Sure.”“Uh-huh. You’ll make a hell of a good witness for the State—as long as you last.”
Wind River Jim rode down to the office, tied his horse to the little hitch-rack, spat vigorously, unlocked the door and went in. He sent his tall Stetson spinning toward a nail, missed it by three feet, sat down in the rickety swivel chair, hooked his feet over a corner of the desk, and yawned.
“Well, I’ve reached my height,” he said aloud. “Officer of the law, and I’ve got a badge to prove it. Next thing I know I’ll be a Senator or some other funny thing, and you never can tell where I’ll go from there. Hello, yourself!”
Jefferson Ryker, prosecuting attorney of Black Horse, stepped inside the office and looked curiously at Wind River. Ryker was above average height, but was very thin. He wore tall white collars and a stringy black bow tie. The collar was big enough to give ample play to his Adam’s apple. His suit was a rusty black and would have fitted him had he been fifty pounds heavier.
Ryker was rather an old-timer in the country. For a number of years he had operated an assay office in Turquoise City, but with the falling off of the mining industry he had devoted himself to the law, had been admitted to the state bar and was now serving his third term as prosecutor. “Mica” Jones, formerly assistant to Ryker in the assay business, was running the assay office for Ryker, and barely making a living.
Wind River Jim did not like Ryker. He took one look at him and groaned slightly; but otherwise he remained silent, after his first greeting, which had not been returned by Jefferson Ryker. The prosecutor stepped back to the doorway and looked up the street.
“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked.
“He’s eatin’ breakfast.”
Ryker leaned against the doorway and examined a cigar, which was rather badly unwrapped. He licked it gently in spots, trying to work the wrapper back into place. Finally he lighted it and puffed convulsively, but got no results.
“Anythin’ you want around here?” queried Wind River. “I’m doin’ the sheriffin’ while Roarin’ Rigby nourishes.”
“You are?” Ryker looked curiously at Wind River, who gave him plenty of opportunity to see the nickel-plated badge.
“Oh, I see.” Ryker came back closer to Wind River. “All right, Wind River, I want to see the prisoner.”
“The prisoner?”
“Yes—Pete Conley.”
“Huh!” snorted Wind River. “Well, now, from where I set, you’ve got a fine chance, Ryker.”
“I have a right to see him!” snapped the lawyer.
“Yea-a-a-ah, the devil you have!”
Wind River jerked his feet off the desk and faced Ryker.
“Your rights and wrongs don’t mean nothin’ to me. If you keep your hat on until I let you see Pete Conley, they’ll have to saw it off when you’re dead.”
“I wonder how Roaring Rigby ever happened to appoint such an ignorant person,” said the lawyer.
“Because he couldn’t trust the smart ones, that’s why. The smarter they are the crookeder they are, Ryker, and I’ve heard that you’re the smartest man in this valley.”
Ryker walked back to the door, boiling with wrath.
“I’m going to find the sheriff,” he said hotly. “You can’t call me a crook and get away with it.”
“Well, you’re a friend of English Ed.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“He’s crooked. You never see a lot of lambs hobnobbin’ with a coyote, do you?”
Ryker whirled on his heel and left the office.
Wind River Jim chuckled to himself as he uncoiled his length from the creaking old chair and walked over to a cracked mirror on the wall. He looked intently at himself.
“You don’t look crazy to me,” he told himself, “but you must be. Appearances are shore deceptive. But I don’t like that cat-eyed lawyer, and it was a good chance to let him know it. Anybody who didn’t know me would think I was mean as dirt.”
The jail adjoined the sheriff’s office, and there was no exit, except through the sheriff’s office. The front of the jail was a blank wall. At the side and rear were small barred windows, not large enough for a man to crawl through. It was not a well ventilated jail, it is true, but it was built to hold a prisoner.
Roaring Rigby came back a few minutes later, carrying a tray of food for Pete Conley.
“This is your job after this, Wind River,” he said, placing the tray on the desk. “What did you say to Ryker?”
“He wanted to see Pete,” grinned Wind River. “I told him to go to hell.”
Roaring grinned widely.
“I thought so. He shore was sore as a boil. Met me at the door of the restaurant and jumped all over me about you.”
“The devil he did! What did you say, Roarin’?”
“Me? I slapped his old face loose from his hat. Mebby that wasn’t exactly the right thing for a sheriff to do, but it’s all I could think of at the time. I never took no oath of office. Anyway, I don’t think there’s anythin’ in the oath about not slappin’ lawyers. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Let’s feed the animal.”
They unlocked the door into the jail and carried the tray in. There was a short hall, about six feet wide, across the room, at each side of which were barred doors. Pete Conley leaned against the bars of one cell, smoking a cigaret.
“Got you some ham and eggs, Pete,” said the sheriff cheerfully.
“Good!” said the half-breed. “What’s new?”
Roaring unlocked the door and put the tray on a chair.
“Nothin’ much. English Ed’s gang is pretty sore. They rode all night. Ha-haha-ha! Aw, they’ll cool off. Last night they was in a lynchin’ mood, tha’s all. Ryker wants to see you, Pete. Jist remember he’s the jigger that’ll try to hang you. Don’t tell him a thing,sabe? You don’t have to talk.”
Pete nodded quickly.
“I like see Judge Beal.”
“You can’t, Pete; he’s the judge.”
“He’s good man.”
“Uh-huh—shore, but he can’t see you until you walk into his courtroom. You’ll have to hire a lawyer, I reckon.”
“What for?”
“To prove you didn’t kill Mallette.”
“What lawyer see who kill him?”
“Oh, hell, there you are, Wind River!” exploded Roaring. “Can you imagine that? What lawyer seen who shot him?”
“I dunno,” said Wind River innocently. “Did any?”
Roaring stared open-mouthed at Wind River. Finally he closed his mouth and shook his head sadly.
“Well, I reckon it’s all right,” he said resignedly. “I hired you because you was honest, Wind River.”
“My old man come town yet?” asked Pete, beginning to eat.
“Not yet.”
“Huh! How soon they hang me?”
“Are you in any hurry, Pete?”
“Not much.”
“Well, that’s fine. They’ll have to try you first, so you’ll jist have to be patient. First they’ll give you a hearin’ and decide if yo’re worth hangin’. Then they’ll hold the trial and see when you git hung. It’ll take quite a while.”
“Nobody ask me if I kill Mallette,” said Pete, his mouth filled with food. “I like kill him pretty good, but somebody kill him. He stole my money.”
“You like to kill him, eh?”
“Sure.”
“Uh-huh. You’ll make a hell of a good witness for the State—as long as you last.”