“Bought forty-fives. Mentioned that I probably didn’t sell many twenty-twos. I told him Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in this part of the country.”
“Yeah, he’s got one,” said Cutter. “I need a pair of overalls, Al. Give ’em to me big enough. This cowboy idea of tight pants don’t appeal to me. So he’s interested in twenty-twos, is he? Pretty small gun for a grown man; me, I like a thirty-thirty.”
Hashknife went back to the office and asked Roaring to let him speak a word with Pete Conley. Roaring was willing. Hashknife told Pete that his father was conscious, and the half-breed seemed pleased. Jimmy Moran danced a jig on the cell floor and wanted to know all the details.
“What did he say?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “Did he have any idea who shot him, Hashknife?”
“He said you did, Jimmy.”
“My God!” Jimmy turned around and sat down.
“I want to ask you a question, Pete,” said Hashknife.
“Sure.”
“You’ve got a twenty-two rifle, Pete?”
“Sure,” Pete grinned widely. “I got little gun. Pretty damn good gun, too.”