“Nothing; I’ve had enough.”
Le Moyne turned his back to the bar, while he rolled and lighted a cigaret, his eyes thoughtful. Scotty Olson came in and spoke to Le Moyne as he walked past, but the handsome paymaster of the Santa Rita did not reply. Finally he walked out, mounted his horse and rode away.
The sheriff came back to the bar.
“What’s the matter with Le Moyne?” he asked of the bartender.
“I dunno.” The bartender rested his elbows on the bar, chewing on his cigar. “I told him about the bushwhacker out at the Double Bar 8 almost killin’ Marion Taylor, and I suppose Le Moyne is sore about it.”
“Al Porter was tellin’ me about it,” nodded the sheriff. “I don’t sabe it.”
“You’d be a wonder if yuh did, Scotty. This country is getting pretty salty, don’tcha know it? First a train robbery, then an attempted murder on the main street, and now they’re shootin’ from the hills.”
“And what for?” wailed the sheriff. “My ——, I do hate a mystery!”
“Sure yuh do, Scotty. What’ll yuh drink? See-gar? Sure. These ought to be good. Paid five dollars for that box of ’em three years ago. Pretty dry? Well, my ——, you’d be dry, too, if yuh was kept in a box in Arizona for three years. What-cha suppose anybody’s tryin’ to kill off Legg for?”
“I didn’t know they was.”