“One was Lovely Lucas,” grinned Sleepy. “He said he was goin’ to get help and come back, didn’t he? Wasn’t he goin’ to get a jigger named Horse-Collar?”
“That’s right! Why, the dirty bum! And they’ve got my deputy along with ’em. See if you can find out where they are, Sleepy.”
“Is that so!” snorted Sleepy. “Take a look and grab a harp. Not me, brother.”
“Hunh! Well, they won’t shoot at me, I’ll betcha.”
Roaring strode over to the doorway, ducked convulsively when a bullet thudded into the wall behind him, and whirled in against the wall.
“I lose,” he said quickly.
The shooting had caused considerable excitement in the main street, but none of the three men went to the door until Hank Pitts, of the Big 4, came down to the doorway as a committee of one to find out what caused it.
“They’re over in the Ranger Saloon,” he told Roaring. “Anybody—my Lord, you shore got painted! Ink?”
“Ink! Nobody got hurt. Hartley accidentally fired Moses Conley’s gun, and them drunken fools thought we were shootin’ at them. Got a darn good notion to jail all three of ’em.”
“I wouldn’t; they’re drunk,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt.”