“What do you know about the killin’ of Mallette?” asked Roaring coldly.
“Not a damned thing!”
“Not a thing, eh?”
“How would I know?” demanded Pete.
“They told me you went out to get him.”
Pete’s left hand went to his sore lips and he scowled heavily.
“You come to get me for shootin’ Mallette?”
Roaring nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry, Pete. They think you done it, you know.”
Pete leaned back against the wall, his right hand swinging close to the butt of his gun. Roaring knew that Pete was fast with a gun. There was something of the trapped animal about this swarthy, bright-eyed young man.