“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t go out there to see how much truth there is in it, if I were you, Mr. Ryker.”
Dawn left the office and went back up the street, while Wind River Jim leaned back in the old swivel chair and laughed at Ryker.
“That’s a reg’lar family of home folks,” laughed the deputy. “Girl sticks up two mad punchers with a shotgun and takes away their guns. Then the old gent declares war ag’in’ the world. I only hope he don’t decide to attack. As far as I’m concerned, he can jist set there on his porch until the stock rots off his Winchester. I’ve seen that old pelican throw lead from his old forty-five-seventy, and I don’t want him to notch no sight on me.”
“But that’s a ridiculous situation,” declared Ryker, waving his arms helplessly. “The man must be crazy.”
“Put yourself in his place, Ryker. His son faces hangin’; they find a lot of Big 4 steers killed on his land, and they’re goin’ to try and git him for it. What would you do, eh? Wave your arms and talk about it bein’ ridiculous? Huh! You make me sick!”
Ryker walked to the doorway and leaned a shoulder against the door-frame. Roaring Rigby, Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan and Hashknife Hartley were riding into the upper end of the street. Hartley and Regan rode in at the Black Horse Saloon hitch-rack, where they tied the three horses, while Moran and Regan came on down to the office. Moran shook hands with Ryker and Wind River Jim, and Ryker wanted to know all about the dead steers.
Moran told him exactly what they had found, and Ryker whistled softly.
“But you’re going to have Conley arrested, are you not?” he asked.
“Haven’t made up my mind.”
“You should; he’s out at his ranch, and he says he’ll kill the first man that comes out there.”