“Yeah, I s’pose. You better send somebody for a doctor. Old Doc Shelley is the coroner; so you better get him, not that he can do Mallette any good, but to make it legal.”
They opened the door and walked out into the saloon. Business was at a standstill. A knot of girls stood near the honkatonk platform, talking in subdued voices, and a crowd of cowboys and gamblers were at the bar. For once, the whirr of the roulette-wheel and the clatter of chips were stilled.
Roaring Rigby walked past the long bar, and a cowboy called to him:
“If you want to save that half-breed for trial, you better start travelin’, Rigby.”
It was Mark Clayton, of the Big 4 outfit. Roaring turned and looked at Clayton.
“And you better sober up and go home,” said Roaring. “This is a man’s job—and you ain’t dry behind the ears.”
Roaring walked straight across the street to a general store. He knew the crowd in the Black Horse would watch to see what he would do. Straight through the store he went, opened a back door and headed around to his stable, which was behind the sheriff’s office.
He knew the crowd in the saloon was planning either to go out to the Hot Creek ranch after Pete Conley, or to take Pete away from him when he brought him to jail. Roaring saddled his sorrel gelding, circled the town and headed for the Conley ranch, riding swiftly.
Jimmy Moran rode away from Turquoise City, a grin on his lips. His right hand ached a little, but he minded it not. He could still see the vacant stare in English Ed’s eyes; he chuckled to himself. There had been a certain satisfaction in hitting the big gambler.
“Mebby I can save a little money, if I get in bad with all the gamblers and rum sellers,” he told his horse.