Jake Rule shook his head. "We don't wanna sit down, Racey," he said.
"We got a li'l business with you, maybe."
"Maybe? Then you ain't shore about it?"
"Not unless yo're willing. You see, Dolan's drunk to-day, and of course we can't get a warrant till he's sober."
"A warrant? For me?"
"Not yet," said Jake Rule. "Only a search warrant—first. But of course if you ain't willing we can't even touch anything."
"Still, Racey," put in Kansas Casey, smoothly, "if you could see yore way to letting us go through yore warbags, yores and Swing's, it would be a great help, and we'd remember it—after."
"Yeah, we shore would," declared the sheriff. "You save us trouble now, Racey, and I'll guarantee to make you almighty comfortable in the calaboose. You won't have nothing to complain of. Not a thing."
Racey laughed cheerily. "Got me in jail already, have you?" he chuckled. "You'll have me hung next."
"Oh, they's quite some formalities to go through before that happens," declared the sheriff, seriously.
"I'm glad," drawled Racey. "I thought maybe you were fixing to take me right out and string me up before dinner. Want to search our stuff, huh? Hop to it. Swing ain't here, but I'll give you permission for him. He won't mind."