“When are you goin’ to git Pete Conley?” demanded Cutter.
“When?”
Roaring shut one eye and looked curiously at Cutter with the other. Cutter was a small man, slightly gray, with a ferret-like face and a none too pleasant disposition.
“Yeah—when?” snapped Cutter.
Roaring shook his head slowly.
“I ain’t goin’,” he said slowly.
“You ain’t, eh? I suppose murder don’t mean anythin’ to you, Rigby.”
“I dunno—” lazily—“never gave it much thought.”
“Oh, you haven’t!”
“No-o-o-o.”