“I ain’t goin’ to wake him up,” wearily. “I suppose I’d better go out to the Double Bar 8 and investigate that shooting. It won’t do no good, though. I’ve got more prisoners now than I know what to do with. Three of ’em—and a —— dog! I wish I wasn’t the sheriff.”
“Well, cheer up, Scotty; somebody will prob’ly kill yuh very soon, and then yore troubles will all be over.”
“I s’pose that’s true.”
The sheriff went back to his office, where he found Porter cleaning a Winchester.
“Hear anythin’ new?” growled Porter.
“No. Reckon there’s any use investigatin’ that shootin’ at the Taylor ranch?”
Porter inserted a piece of white paper in the breech of the rifle, and squinted down the barrel.
“With two of the smartest detectives already there?” he replied. “You’d find out a —— of a lot, wouldn’t yuh?”
“Mebbe that’s right. I understand they’re hired by Le Moyne, or by the Santa Rita mine.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m,” Porter reached for the oil-can and proceeded to lubricate the mechanism.