"There's nothing personal about this, young fella," said one of the men as Pete's dark eyes blinked somberly. "It's our business, that's all."
"And it's a dam' crawlin' business," asserted Pete. "You couldn't even let The Spider cross over peaceful."
"I reckon he earned all he got," said one of the men.
"Mebby. But it took three fast guns to git him—and he put them out of business first. I'd 'a' liked to seen some of you rubber-heeled heifers tryin' to put the irons on him."
"That kind of talk won't do you no good when you're on the stand, young fella. It ain't likely that Sam Brent was your first job. Your record reads pretty strong for a kid."
"Meanin' Gary? Well, about Gary"—Pete fumbled in his shirt. "I got a letter here" . . . He studied the closely written sheet for a few seconds, then his face cleared. "Jest run your eye over that. It's from Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo'man on the Concho."
The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other's shoulder, "Who's this Jim Bailey, anyhow?"
"He's a white man—fo'man of the Concho, and my boss, onct."
"Well, you're lucky if what he says is so. But that don't square you with the other deal."
"There's only one man that could do that," said Pete. "And I reckon he ain't ridin' where you could git him."