“Will the dirty bum who made that remark say it once more?” he asked coldly.
But no one spoke. They knew the temper of that sad-eyed, bat-eared sheriff, whose shoulders hunched as his eyes swept the faces under the hanging lamps.
“Your arguments hardly do justice to your office,” said Franklyn Moran. “We have demanded the arrest of Moses Conley on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon. I didn’t know that this county paid you a salary as a debater.”
“You’ve got all the argument you’ll git from me,” said Roaring.
He turned his back on them and stalked from the room. Several people laughed, but he did not turn his head. Nor did he hurry as he crossed the street. They could see him from the lighted windows, as he went slowly toward his office. But once inside that office he did not move so slowly. Wind River Jim stared at him, as he sprang to the gun-rack, grabbed down a rifle and a belt of ammunition.
“You stay here, Wind River,” he ordered, and ran out through the back door.
Wind River walked to the front door, where he leaned out, chewing his tobacco violently. It was possibly five minutes later that Hank Pitts and Mark Clayton strolled past.
“Hyah, Wind River,” greeted Hank. “Howsa job?”
“Swell, elegant, Hank; beats punchin’ cows.”
“I s’pose it does,” agreed Hank. He craned his neck past Wind River and looked into the office.