“Chanct? Well, I dunno as I’m askin’ any favors or lookin’ fur jobs. What you got to do about givin’ me a chanct anyhow?”
“Nothing, officially. Personally, a little more than that.” The sheriff’s tone was altogether unruffled and pleasant. “See here, Denny, you ought to know me by this time. I’ve given you a chance to catch on, but you won’t take it.” His manner changed as he whirled toward Fisty. “How many shots did Pete fire at Ross?”
“How in hell do I know?” replied Harrigan, backing away.
“Maybe you don’t, but I’ll tell you.”
The little man stepped to his trunk, unlocked it, and laid three empty cartridges on the table.
Harrigan glanced at them and his eye shifted to the wall.
“Three, Denny; three. Do you think Pete took Ross for a deer more than once?”
“So that’s what you and Mr. Curious Jim is drivin’ at, hey? Well, you jest git to work and prove that I told Pete—”
“Hold on, Denny,—don’t convict yourself yet. I’d have locked you up first if that was what I wanted. I’m showing you the easy way out of it.”
“So Ross is after my scalp, hey? And he’s scared to come out—got to git behind you to do it.”