“Well, by ——, I’m runnin’ my office!” snapped Olson hotly. “No drunken puncher can lock me in my own jail and not hear about it.”
“Let ’em hear about it, by all means—but in a roundabout way, Scotty. And please don’t swear any more. Remember, there’s ladies and gentlemen present.”
“Ex-cuse me,” grunted Scotty, picking up his reins. “Well, we’ll be goin’ along, folks. Adios.”
“Adios, amigo,” said Apostle Paul.
Porter glared at Buck, who wrinkled his nose at the big deputy, and rode away.
They watched the two riders head east across the little valley, riding side by side, as if carrying on a conversation.
“You think they ever find out who rob that train?” asked Peeler.
Buck snorted and headed for the stable.
“Find out nothin’, Peeler. Them two jiggers couldn’t find their own boots. I’d like to be at the AK, when they start their war-talk. That sure was funny about lockin’ him in his own cell.”
Peeler did not reply. He stopped at the stable door and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Buck looked at him sharply.