“You think he’s guilty?”
“Beyond a doubt. He went out to kill Mallette. Admits it.”
“Admits that he wanted to, Ryker.”
“I don’t know about that, because I never talked to him; but the evidence is all against him.”
Hashknife studied the thin face of the prosecuting attorney—the wry neck inside the misfit collar, the deep-set eyes.
“And you was willin’ to kill the case, if that half-breed girl would marry you, eh?” he said coldly.
Ryker flushed hotly and shuffled his feet on the old carpet of the hotel.
“That—that isn’t true,” he stammered.
“I never—”
“Why deny it?” queried Hashknife coldly. “You’re not the first man in your position to misuse his power, Ryker. You ain’t settin’ no precedent that I know of.”