"Well, I call it kind o' warm and I'm goin' outside."
"I wouldn't. One of my deputies is sitting just across the street. He's a mighty good shot. Can beat me hands down. Suppose you drop back in your chair and tell me what you know about the shooting of Fadeaway."
"Me? You ain't joshin', be you?"
"Never more serious in my life! I'm interested in this case."
"Well, I ain't!" was Sundown's prompt remark. "And I got to go. I'm goin' on privut business for me boss and confidenshell. Me and Chance."
"That's all right, my friend. But I have some private and confidential business that can't wait."
"But I ain't done nothin'," whined Sundown, lapsing into his old attitude toward the law.
"Maybe not. Mr. Loring telephoned me that Fadeaway had been shot and that a man answering your description—a tramp, he said—seemed to know something about it. You never was a puncher. You don't get on or off a cayuse like one. From what I learn you were a Hobo when Jack Corliss gave you a job. That's none of my business. I arrest you as a suspicious character, and I guess I'll have to keep you here till I find out more about Fadeaway's case. Have a cigar?"
"Huh! Say, don't you ever get mad?" queried Sundown, impressed by the other's most genial attitude.
The sheriff laughed. "Doesn't pay in my business. Now, you just ease up and tell me what you know. It will save time. Did you ever have trouble with Fadeaway?"