“Well, what you want here?”
“Several things, sheriff. I’ll be real busy to-morrow, so I thought we’d better get all fixed up to-day. Got to go out to the Lazy S to-night with the preacher and attend to the funerals to-morrow.”
“Funerals? At the Lazy S? What in time d’you mean?”
“Shootin’; somebody murdered Miguel Cervantes this mornin’. Shot him twice in the back.”
The sheriff leaped from his chair. Robinson’s hand went to his gun, and Tracy sat down again, breathing hard.
“Who done it?”
“Now, sheriff, don’t go to askin’ me unpleasant questions. One of the gents that done it is real dead. The other gent is going over the road for it—in my care.”
Tracy bristled.
“You may be Sam Fisher and you may not,” he said aggressively, “but you ain’t walkin’ into my county and givin’ no orders, stranger. That’s plumb final. You got no authority here; not a mite.”
“I know it,” said Robinson sweetly. “But I aim to get that authority real sudden. Now don’t go to causing any trouble, Sheriff Tracy. In about ten minutes from now you got to saddle up and take quite a journey, and I’d hate to make you take a longer journey than is necessary.”