“I wish I had his voice,” said Clayton seriously.
“I wish I had his gall,” said Slim.
Hashknife Hartley instinctively liked Roaring Rigby. There was something pathetically earnest about this new sheriff of Black Horse County, who was willing to admit that he knew little about his duties and limitations.
Roaring had ridden back to the Big 4 ranch with Slim Regan and Mark Clayton. He shook hands gravely with Franklyn Moran and with Hashknife, and accepted Moran’s invitation to stay all night. Regan had told Roaring about the dead steers at the Hot Creek coulee.
“That’s Mose Conley’s idea of retaliation,” declared Moran, as they sat together in the main room of the Big 4 ranch-house, the air blue with tobacco smoke.
“Mm-m-m-m-m,” mused Roaring, “kinda funny thing t’ do. What head would that come under, Moran? It ain’t rustlin’. He didn’t steal your cattle.”
“Wanton destruction!” snapped Moran.
“They was inside his fence.”
“He cut the fence himself.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m. Hard to prove, Moran.”