“No such a thing! You’re crazy, all of yuh!”
Old Chuckwalla fairly danced up and down on the sheriff’s office floor and his mustaches bristled angrily. He shook a gnarled fist at Slim Caldwell.
“You long-legged gallinipper!” he roared. “You accuse me of bustin’ yore hen-coop of a jail, do yuh? You think I let Rance McCoy out, eh? I’d shore crave to know where yuh got that idea.”
It was the day after they had found DuMond’s body, and Chuckwalla had just been told that Rance had been delivered from the jail. Slim had come out openly and asked Chuckwalla where he had taken Rance. Of course the old man was properly indignant.
“You swore you’d bust the jail,” reminded Slim.
“Uh-huh. Shore I did. I was mad—and drunk. But I never done it, Slim. Honest to God!”
“Then where in hell is he?” demanded Slim. “If you didn’t take him out—who did?” Chuckwalla waved his arms helplessly.
“How’d I know?”
Slim turned and looked at Hashknife, who was smiling at old Chuckwalla.
“What do you think, Hashknife?”