“Well, ye were drunk, weren’t ye?”
“Ask Honey Bee, Ed Merrick, Ben Collins or Limpy Nelson. They all saw me, Mac. That should be evidence enough.”
“Ay,” McLaren sighed. “There seems to be plenty of evidence that you played the fool. I dunno.” McLaren took a deep breath and expelled it forcibly. “Well, I wish ye all the luck in the world, Joe Rich. I think you are payin’ for yer own sins; but ye are a young man and the world is wide.”
They shook hands gravely and Joe went back to his little cottage. It seemed queer that he should be leaving Pinnacle City; almost as queer as the fact that Jim Wheeler was lying dead at the doctor’s office. Joe didn’t know where he was going, except that it would be out through the south end of the valley; possibly down into Arizona. He would travel light. His war-bag contained a change of clothes, and that was all, except for a few trinkets.
He tied it to his saddle, covering it with a black slicker, and rode up to the county treasurer’s office, where he drew a warrant for his remaining salary. Then he cashed it at the Pinnacle City bank, and drew out the few remaining dollars he had on deposit there.
As he came from the bank he met Ed Merrick, who had just tied his horse farther up the street.
“Hello, Joe,” greeted Merrick. “What’s all this talk about Jim Wheeler gettin’ killed?”
“I reckon you heard right, Ed,” said Joe.
“Horse drug him to death?”
“Yeah.”