The postmaster glanced at the sheriff’s badge, silently shoved out the letters, and stared at Robinson as that young man departed.
Without looking at his mail, Robinson took his easy way to the sheriff’s office. He nodded to the loungers outside, and passed in. At the door which bore the sheriff’s name he paused. Turning the handle, he walked in.
Sheriff Tracy was seated at a desk, alone in the room. He looked up, saw who his visitor was, and gasped. Then his hand slid across the desk.
“Don’t!” said Robinson, and Tracy looked into a gun. “Set back; I dropped in for a quiet talk. Also, I aim to use your office a spell.”
“You impudent scoundrel!” gasped the sheriff. “Look here! What d’you know about that shooting on the north road yesterday?”
“Know all about it,” responded Robinson coolly, closing the door and drawing up a chair opposite the sheriff. He sat down and laid the gun before him. “In fact, I done it. Now, set still and don’t call in anybody just yet. We got to have a talk. First, I want to look at this here mail, if you don’t object.”
He put the letters on the desk and spread them out. Tracy’s glance fell to them. A start of surprise, and his gaze returned to Robinson’s face.
“Whose mail you got there, Robinson?”
“My own.” Robinson smiled thinly, knowing that Tracy had read the name on that mail.
There was a moment of silence. Tracy surveyed his cool visitor with frightful uneasiness, licked his lips, tugged at his mustache. Then: