“I thought so. He shore was sore as a boil. Met me at the door of the restaurant and jumped all over me about you.”
“The devil he did! What did you say, Roarin’?”
“Me? I slapped his old face loose from his hat. Mebby that wasn’t exactly the right thing for a sheriff to do, but it’s all I could think of at the time. I never took no oath of office. Anyway, I don’t think there’s anythin’ in the oath about not slappin’ lawyers. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Let’s feed the animal.”
They unlocked the door into the jail and carried the tray in. There was a short hall, about six feet wide, across the room, at each side of which were barred doors. Pete Conley leaned against the bars of one cell, smoking a cigaret.
“Got you some ham and eggs, Pete,” said the sheriff cheerfully.
“Good!” said the half-breed. “What’s new?”
Roaring unlocked the door and put the tray on a chair.
“Nothin’ much. English Ed’s gang is pretty sore. They rode all night. Ha-haha-ha! Aw, they’ll cool off. Last night they was in a lynchin’ mood, tha’s all. Ryker wants to see you, Pete. Jist remember he’s the jigger that’ll try to hang you. Don’t tell him a thing, sabe? You don’t have to talk.”
Pete nodded quickly.
“I like see Judge Beal.”