“Now, sheriff, I didn’t come lookin’ for a cell like you hinted; I drifted in for a bit of information.”
“This is headquarters for that article, especially if it’s about yourself,” said Long, dropping the paper on his desk and sitting down in the chair before it.
“What all have you got against me?” frowned Rathburn.
“Nothing much,” said the sheriff with biting sarcasm; “just a few killings, highway robbery, a bank stick-up, two or three gaming houses looted, and a stage holdup. Enough to keep you in the Big House for ninety-nine years and then hang you.”
Rathburn nodded. “You’re sure an ambitious man, sheriff. The killings now––there was White and Moran, that you know about, an’ a skunk over in California named Carlisle, that you don’t know about, I guess. I couldn’t get away from those shootings, sheriff.”
“How about Simpson and Manley?” countered the official scornfully.
“Not on my list,” said Rathburn quickly. “I heard I was given credit for those affairs, but I wasn’t a member of the party where they were snuffed out.”
“If you can make a jury believe that, you’re in the clear,” said Long. “But how about that stage driver yesterday morning?”
Rathburn’s face darkened. “I got in from the west just in time to stumble on that gang of rats,” he flared. “That’s how your men came to see me. The chase happened to come in my direction, that’s all.”
“If you can prove that, you’re all right again,” 212 the sheriff pointed out. “The law will go halfway with you, Rathburn.”