“Well, ——, I never stole my own ammunition!” wailed Hork.
Slim whirled and walked out of the place, while Hork called down curses upon the heads of those who had robbed him. He was a thrifty soul, was Hork, and it was the monetary loss, not the plight of the cattlemen which caused him to grieve so deeply.
Slim’s thin face expressed deep disgust as he started across the street and met Micky Hart. Slim had eyes of a peculiar greenish cast, and when he grew angry they seemed to intensify in color. For Slim was not of the jovial type, and when Micky related the good news of Eph King’s capture he did not enthuse greatly.
“We’ve got him,” declared Micky, after relating the details. “He was with Jack Hartwell, so we hung ropes on Jack and brought him in, too. I reckon we’ve done pretty well, eh?”
“Why didn’t yuh bring his wife?” asked Slim.
“Aw, ——, yuh can’t do that to a woman, Slim. What the ——? We can find her any old time, and she can’t do no harm now.”
Micky bow-legged his way on across the street. Slim studied the situation for a while, turned away from the saloon entrance, went back to the hitch rack and mounted his horse. For several moments he sat there, deep in thought.
Finally he swung his horse around and rode down to the sheriff’s office, where he dismounted. The sheriff met him at the door.
“Heard the news, have yuh, Slim?” he asked.
“Yeah.”