The meal finished, Ramsay got his pipe going while the other four rolled cigarettes, and Sidewinder started his catechism.
“First off, what kind of an officer are you, anyhow? County, State or Fed’ral?”
“Neither one,” Ramsay chuckled. “My name’s Pat Ramsay. I came here to get Mr. Emery yonder, also Cholo Bill, for the murder of my brother Alec last year. You were a party to it also.”
Emery started to speak, but Sidewinder flashed him a look that held him silent.
“It wasn’t no murder,” said Sidewinder. “It was a straight killin’—”
“No use passing any lies,” said Ramsay quietly. “Let’s all stick to the truth. Alec left a message for me, also the deed to that property he bought from Harrison—told me all about it. I found ’em in Pinecate Cañon the other day. The deed’s gone in to the recorder’s office. So has an explanation of the circumstances. I expect the sheriff will be along any time to look things over.”
An outburst of startled oaths broke from the three outlaws, but Sidewinder only grinned and put a hand to his pocket. He drew forth an unopened letter. Ramsay, in dismay, recognized it as that containing the deed, which he had registered with Haywire Johnson.
“Here y’are,” said Sidewinder, and tossed it to him with a malignant grin. “I reckon ye might’s well keep it. Serve for identification. Darned good thing I took a look through that mail-sack ’fore it went out yesterday, eh? What’d you do to Hassayamp, anyhow? He got Miss Gilman’s money, took Mesquite’s hoss and beat it for parts unknown.”
Ramsay, although he flinched under the blow, rallied quickly.
“I jogged his memory about a job he pulled off down in Arizona before coming here.”