“Even that doesn’t need proof. He shot the animals. Any jury on earth would convict him.”
“Any Black Horse jury would convict Mose Conley of anythin’. Just bring your charge.”
“Well, he brought it on himself, Roarin’, when he fenced in the only open winter water-hole in the country.”
“It’s his land.”
“I can see where Conley’s got one friend.”
“Two,” corrected Roaring. “Me and Jimmy Moran.”
That was a body punch to Franklyn Moran. He got up from his chair and announced that he was going to bed.
“We’ll see about those steers in the morning,” he said.
Hashknife slept in the ranch-house that night. He tried not to work up any interest in the squabble. He did not care particularly for Franklyn Moran, who was half-Easterner, half-Westemer, and inclined to be proud of his own importance.
Moran had told Hashknife much of the story during their ride from Sibley Junction. He had admitted that he double-crossed Moses Conley in a mining deal, because he was unwilling to match his money against Conley’s knowledge. He told Hashknife that he had bought up several prospects which turned out well. In fact, these prospects were responsible for his fortune.