Ryker was rather an old-timer in the country. For a number of years he had operated an assay office in Turquoise City, but with the falling off of the mining industry he had devoted himself to the law, had been admitted to the state bar and was now serving his third term as prosecutor. “Mica” Jones, formerly assistant to Ryker in the assay business, was running the assay office for Ryker, and barely making a living.
Wind River Jim did not like Ryker. He took one look at him and groaned slightly; but otherwise he remained silent, after his first greeting, which had not been returned by Jefferson Ryker. The prosecutor stepped back to the doorway and looked up the street.
“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked.
“He’s eatin’ breakfast.”
Ryker leaned against the doorway and examined a cigar, which was rather badly unwrapped. He licked it gently in spots, trying to work the wrapper back into place. Finally he lighted it and puffed convulsively, but got no results.
“Anythin’ you want around here?” queried Wind River. “I’m doin’ the sheriffin’ while Roarin’ Rigby nourishes.”
“You are?” Ryker looked curiously at Wind River, who gave him plenty of opportunity to see the nickel-plated badge.
“Oh, I see.” Ryker came back closer to Wind River. “All right, Wind River, I want to see the prisoner.”
“The prisoner?”
“Yes—Pete Conley.”