“And all this will lead to more killin’,” said Moran. “I’ll tell you what to do, Slim. You and Mark go to town and bring Roarin’ Rigby out to the Big 4. Tell him I want to talk with him.”
“All right. But in the meantime we ought to have a man over on Hot Creek, to see that Mose Conley don’t destroy all that evidence.”
“And get him shot into ribbons, eh? I know Conley.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s true. Well, they’re your steers; so you can do as you please. We’ll bring Roarin’ back with us.”
Slim Regan was glad that Franklyn Moran arrived in time to take charge of the affair. It would take the responsibility off of his shoulders, and Slim didn’t care for responsibility.
He and Clayton splashed through the ford at Black Horse Creek and, about a quarter of a mile beyond, they met Jimmy Moran. Jimmy was alone, singing at the top of his voice. He had a very good barytone, developed to a certain extent in a college glee club.
“Drunk ag’in,” declared Mark.
But Jimmy wasn’t drunk. He drew up beside them, grinning good-naturedly. Slim Regan scowled. Jimmy had a habit of getting on Slim’s nerves.
“Your father just came in,” said Slim.
“Yea-a-a-ah? Too much for you to handle, eh?”