“Then yo’re not goin’ out after Pete Conley, eh?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s already in jail.”
Cutter’s jaw dropped and he looked at Roaring, with his mouth open, gasping.
“In jail!” he exploded. “When did you put him im jail?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? Why, we—we—” Cutter spluttered helplessly. “Why, we chased him half the night.”
“You did like hell,” drawled Roaring. “You started out to foller a gray horse, but the gray horse doubled back on yuh. You’re a hell of a man-hunter, you are.”
Cutter was speechless. Roaring locked the door, put the key in his pocket and started up the street toward a restaurant, paying no attention to Cutter, who jerked his horse around and rode straight to the Chinese restaurant, where the posse had gone for breakfast.