“Well,” the other told him when he had finished, “the sheriff wants to see you.”
The desperado shrugged his shoulders, but went along quietly enough; bail was easy to arrange in those days, and this was not a serious matter.
In his office Johnny Behan heard the tale and frowned. There were times when his cow-boy constituents became a source of embarrassment to him; this was one of them.
“Guess you’ll have to turn over those guns of yours,” he bade the prisoner.
Ringo handed the revolvers to him, and he put them into a desk drawer. There followed several moments of awkward silence. At length Johnny Behan arose and started to leave the room.
“Going to lock me up?” Ringo asked. “I’d like to fix it to get bail, you know.”
“No charge against you,” the sheriff said in the doorway. “You can go back downtown whenever you want to.”
With which he passed out into the corridor and forgot all about the matter. In the office Ringo stood scowling at the deputy.
“That’s plain murder,” he said at length. “Before I get a block away from here without my guns those coyotes will kill me.”