Kitabı oku: «The Coming of the Law», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXII
PROOF OF GRATITUDE
Shortly after noon on the same day Hollis, finding work irksome, closed his desk with a bang, told Potter that he was going home, mounted his pony, and loped the animal out the Dry Bottom trail. He remembered hearing Norton tell one of the men that morning that he suspected that several of Ed Hazelton’s cattle were still in the vicinity of the basin near the Hazelton cabin, and he determined to ride around that way and try to turn them back toward the Circle Bar. It would be recreation for him after a hot morning in the office.
He also remembered another thing that had occurred that morning at the ranch house. Mrs. Norton had assured him–with a sly, eloquent glance at him–that he might do worse than to make arrangements to keep Nellie Hazelton at the Circle Bar indefinitely. At the risk of being considered obtuse Hollis had ignored the hint, broad though it had been. But Mrs. Norton’s words had shown him that Nellie stood high in her estimation and he felt a queer, unaccountable elation.
After striking the Dry Bottom trail he took a circuitous route and some time later came out upon a high ridge overlooking a basin. There were some cattle down there and he made a mental note of the locality so that he would be able to tell Norton where to have the men look for the cattle. Then he rode along the ridge until he could no longer see the basin. He spent most of the afternoon exploring the surrounding country, and then when the dusk began to fall he retraced his steps to the ridge upon which he had ridden earlier in the afternoon. Something familiar in the shape of the hills near him struck him and he halted his pony and smiled. These were the hills that he had seen many times from the Hazelton porch. He faced around, certain that if the hills could be seen from the porch he would be able to discern the porch from some point on the ridge, for he was satisfied that he must be nearly in line with it. He rode back and forth a few moments, and then, coming out on a bald spot on the ridge, he saw the cabin.
It was about a mile away, snuggled comfortably down in a little basin, with some trees and shrubbery flanking it on both sides. He smiled as he looked at it, and then suddenly his face clouded, for he saw two ponies hitched to the porch. His forehead wrinkled perplexedly over this. He was certain that Nellie rode the same animal each time, because she would not trust any of the others that were now with the remuda. One of the horses belonged to her of course, for he could see the gay ribbon with which she was accustomed to decorate her animal’s bridle. But to whom did the other horse belong? He gazed steadily toward the cabin, searching for signs of life on the porch. But though he could see clearly–even into the shadows from a rambling rose bush that clung to the eaves of the roof–no human figure appeared on the porch.
Certainly Nellie must have a visitor. But who? He was not aware that the Hazeltons had made friends with anyone in the neighborhood besides himself and the Nortons. He smiled. Probably some cowboy from the Circle Bar had been in the vicinity looking for Hazelton’s cattle, had met Nellie, and had stopped at the cabin. He remembered to have heard Norton say that he was sending a man in that direction some time that day.
That must be the explanation. But while he sat, debating the propriety of riding down to the cabin to satisfy his curiosity, the sound of a pistol shot floated to his ears on the slight breeze that was blowing toward him.
He sat erect, his face paling. Then he smiled again. He had been in the West long enough to become acquainted with the cowboy nature and he surmised that Nellie’s visitor was very likely exhibiting his skill with the revolver. But he turned his pony and urged it down the sloping side of the ridge, riding slowly in the direction of the cabin.
After striking the bottom of the slope he rode cut upon a broad level that stretched away for half a mile. He made better time here and had almost covered half the width of the plain when two more reports reached his ears. He was close enough now to hear them distinctly and it seemed to him that they sounded muffled. He halted the pony and sat stiffly in the saddle, his gaze on the cabin. Then he saw a thin stream of blue-white smoke issue from the doorway and curl lazily upward.
A grave doubt assailed him. No cowboy would be likely to exhibit his skill with a weapon in the cabin! Nellie’s visitor must be an unwelcome one!
The pony felt the sudden spurs and raced like a whirlwind over the remaining stretch of plain. Hollis had become suddenly imbued with a suspicion that brought an ashen pallor to his face and an awful rage into his heart. He slid his pony down one side of a steep arroyo, sent it scrambling up the other side, jumped it over some rocks that littered the rise, spurred savagely through a little basin, and reaching the edge of the porch, dismounted and bounded to the door.
He saw two figures–Nellie Hazelton and a man. He saw the man’s fingers gripping the girl’s throat and the lust of murder surged over and blinded him. In the dusk that had fallen he could only dimly see the man’s head and he swung his right fist at it, putting every ounce of his strength into the blow. He felt the fist strike, realized that it had glanced, and tried to recover for a second blow.
But the terrific swing had carried him off his balance. He whirled clear around, slipped, and came down to the floor flat on his face. He was up in an instant, however, his brain afire with rage, his muscles tingling with eagerness. He did not think of the gun at his hip, for the lust of murder was in his soul and he wanted only to hit the man–to seize him and tear him apart–to crush and smash the vile hands that he had seen at the girl’s throat.
Five feet from him, facing him, on his hands and knees and scrambling to rise, was the man. He recognized Yuma, and even as he bounded forward the latter gained his feet and tugged at his gun-holster. The weapon had not yet cleared the holster when Hollis was upon him. He struck again with his right fist and missed, crashing against Yuma in his eagerness and carrying him down to the floor with a force that shook the cabin. As they fell Hollis felt a sharp, agonizing pain in his left wrist, from which the splints had been only recently removed, and the hand hung limp at his side, entirely useless.
For an instant after the fall Yuma lay still, breathing heavily. Then he made a sudden movement with his right arm and Hollis caught a glint of metal. He threw himself at the arm, catching it with his right hand just above the wrist and jamming it tight to the floor. Yuma tried to squirm free, failed, and with a curse drove his left fist into the side of Hollis’s face. Again he tried to squirm free and during the struggle that followed the hand holding the pistol was raised from the floor. Hollis saw it and wrenched desperately at the arm, twisting it and dragging it furiously downward to the floor. Yuma shrieked with rage and pain as the force of the impact cracked his knuckles and sent the weapon clattering ten feet away.
For an instant both men lay silent, panting from their exertions. Then Yuma succeeded in getting one leg over Hollis’s body and one arm around his neck. With a quick motion–successful because of Hollis’s injured wrist–he turned the latter over on his back. His eyes alight with an exultant, malevolent fire, he gripped Hollis’s throat with one hand and drove at his face with the other. A quick movement of the head served to defeat Yuma’s aim and his fist thumped heavily against the floor, bringing a grimace of pain to his face. Disregarding his injured wrist, Hollis wrenched savagely and succeeded in rolling free of Yuma and reaching his feet. He had moved quickly, but the lithe, cat-like half-breed was before him, bounding toward the pistol on the floor. He was bending over it, his fingers gripping its butt, when Hollis, throwing himself forward bodily, crashed into him and hurled him heavily to the floor.
This time Yuma lay face downward, his arms outstretched, and Hollis lay sprawled out on top of him. But Yuma had succeeded in holding to the pistol; it was grasped in his outstretched right hand, just out of Hollis’s reach.
For an instant again both men lay silent, breathing rapidly. Then, yielding to the rage that still possessed him, Hollis bounded to his feet, striking Yuma a crashing blow in the face as he did so. While Yuma reeled he brought his booted foot down on the hand holding the pistol, grinding it under his heel.
Yuma screamed with pain and rage and got to his feet, holding his injured hand with the other. The pistol lay on the floor where Yuma had dropped it when Hollis’s boot had come in contact with his hand. For an instant Yuma stood gripping his hand, his face hideous with passion. Then with a snarl of rage and hate he drew a knife from the folds of his shirt and sprang toward Hollis.
Hollis tensed himself for the clash, rapidly measuring the distance, and when Yuma came close enough caught him squarely on the side of the jaw with a vicious right swing. But in some manner when Hollis stepped aside to avoid Yuma’s knife, his feet had become entangled with the legs of the table that Yuma had previously overturned. As he struck he slipped, the blow at Yuma’s jaw not having the force he intended it to have. He caught himself, slipped again and went down, turning completely over the table top and falling face downward to the floor. He saw Yuma throw himself forward and he tried to wriggle out of danger, but he failed. He felt the half-breed’s weight on his body, saw the knife flash in the dull light. He tried to roll over and grasp the knife in its descent, but could not, his left arm, now useless, being pinned to the floor by Yuma’s knee.
A revolver roared spitefully–once–twice. Yuma’s knife hissed past Hollis’s ear and struck the floor, its point sunk deep, its handle swaying idly back and forth. Yuma himself–inert, limp, rolled from Hollis’s back and lay flat on his own, his eyes wide open and staring, two huge bullet holes in his forehead. And in the open doorway of the cabin stood Ten Spot.
For an instant Hollis could not realize his escape. He looked at Yuma and then again at Ten Spot. Slowly and painfully he got to his feet, looking around at the wreck of the room. Staggering a little, he walked to where Ten Spot stood, gripping the latter’s hand silently, at a loss for words with which to thank him.
But apparently Ten Spot did not notice the omission, for he grinned broadly.
“I reckon there’s folks which would call that a right clever bit of shootin’,” he said, “seem’ a? there wasn’t time to pull off no fancy stuff!”
CHAPTER XXIII
TEN SPOT USES HIS EYES
The crash of Ten Spot’s pistols aroused Nellie Hazelton, and she sat up and stared stupidly about–at Hollis, who was just rising from the floor; at Ten Spot, who still stood in the doorway; and then at Yuma’s body, stretched out on the floor beside the overturned table. She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. The next instant Hollis was bending over her, helping her to her feet, leading her to the door and assuring her in a low, earnest voice that everything was all right, and that Yuma would never trouble her again, and that he wanted her to get on her pony and go to the Circle Bar. She allowed herself to be led out on the porch, but once there she looked at him with renewed spirit.
“It was you who came first,” she said; “I didn’t see you, but I heard Yuma curse, felt something strike him, and then–I must have fainted. You see, I felt it must be you–I had been expecting you.”
As she spoke she seized his hands and pressed them tightly, her eyes eloquent with thankfulness. “Oh, I am so glad!” she whispered. Then she saw Ten Spot standing in the doorway and she ran over and seized his hands also, shaking them hysterically. And Ten Spot stood, red of face, grinning bashfully at her–like a big, awkward, embarrassed schoolboy.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever been thanked for shootin’ anybody!” he confided to Hollis, later. “An’ it cert’nly did feel some strange!”
In spite of Hollis’s remonstrances the girl insisted on returning to the interior of the cabin, to “bundle up her things.” Feeling the futility of further objection, Hollis finally allowed her to enter. But while she was busy in one of the rooms he and Ten Spot carried Yuma’s body outside, around to the rear of the cabin.
Then, when the girl had finally secured her “things” and they had been securely tied to her pony, and she had started down the trail toward the Circle Bar ranch, Hollis and Ten Spot returned to the rear of the cabin, took up Yuma’s body, carried it to a secluded spot at some little distance from the cabin and there buried it deep and quickly.
“I want to thank you again,” said Hollis as he and Ten Spot stood on the porch when Hollis was ready to depart; “it was a great stroke of luck that brought you here just when you were needed.”
Ten Spot grinned. “I don’t think it was just luck that brought me,” he said; “though mebbe it was luck that took me into the Fashion this morning. Whatever it was, I was in there, an’ I heard Dunlavey an’ Yuma cookin’ this here deal. I wasn’t feelin’ entirely ongrateful for the way you’d treated me after you’d got my gun that day in the Kicker office an’ I wasn’t intendin’ to let happen what Dunlavey wanted to happen. So I got out of the Fashion as soon as I could an’ trailed Yuma. I’ve been after him all day, but somehow or other I lost him an’ didn’t find out where he’d gone till a little while ago–when I heard a gun go off. Then I hit the breeze here–after Yuma. That’s all. That’s how I come to get here so lucky.” He stuck out a hand to Hollis. “Well, so-long,” he said; “I’m hittin’ the breeze out of the country.” He stepped forward to his pony, but hesitated when he heard Hollis speak.
“Then you’re not going back to the Circle Cross–to work for Dunlavey?” questioned the latter.
“Well, no,” grinned Ten Spot. “You see, it might not be so pleasant now as it’s been. I reckon when Dunlavey hears this he won’t be exactly tickled.”
Hollis contemplated him gravely. “So you’re going to leave the country?” he said slowly, his eyes twinkling. “I take it you are not afraid – ”
“Don’t!” said Ten Spot coldly and sharply. Then he grinned with feline cordiality. “I reckon I ain’t scared of anyone,” he said, “but I ain’t likin’ to go back to the Circle Cross after puttin’ Yuma out of business. I’ve done some mean things in my time, but I ain’t dealin’ double with no man, an’ I couldn’t go back to the Circle Cross an’ work for Dunlavey when I ain’t sympathizin’ with him none.”
“I’m shy of good cowhands,” offered Hollis quietly. “If forty a month would be – ”
Ten Spot’s right hand was suddenly gripping Hollis’s. “You’ve hired a man, boss!” he said, his eyes alight with pleasure. “Ever since you clawed me that day in the Kicker office I’ve had a hankerin’ to work for you. I was wonder in’ if you’d ast me. There ain’t no damn – ”
“Then it’s a bargain,” laughed Hollis, interrupting. “You can start right now.” He pointed to the ridge upon which he had been riding when he heard the shot that had brought him to the cabin. “Some of Ed Hazelton’s cattle are in the basin on the other side of that ridge,” he said. “You go over there and keep an eye on them until I can get a chance to send some one here to help you drive them back up the river toward the Circle Bar.” As he came to the edge of the porch to mount his pony his gaze fell on Yuma’s horse, still hitched to one of the columns. “What are we going to do with Yuma’s horse?” he questioned.
Ten Spot grinned. He walked over to the pony, unhitched it, and with a vicious slap on the flank sent it loping down the trail toward the river.
“That’ll be my message to Dunlavey that Yuma ain’t here any more,” he said grimly.
Hollis mounted and rode a short distance, but halted and turned in the saddle when he heard Ten Spot call to him.
“Boss,” he said with a grin, “I ain’t exactly blind, an’ mebbe you’ve got your eyes with you, too. But I saw that there Hazelton girl lookin’ at you sorta – ”
He saw a smile on Hollis’s face, but the rest of his speech was drowned in a clatter of hoofs as the “boss’s” pony tore down the Coyote trail. Then Ten Spot smiled, mounted his pony, and rode away toward the ridge.
CHAPTER XXIV
CAMPAIGN GUNS
Of course Yuma had been amply punished for his part in the attack on Nellie Hazelton, but there still remained Dunlavey–who had instigated it. Hollis was aware of the uselessness of bringing a charge against Dunlavey–he had not forgotten his experience with Bill Watkins when he had attempted to have Greasy brought to justice. He believed that he would not have brought such a charge had there been any probability of the sheriff taking action. He felt that in inciting Yuma to attack Nellie, Dunlavey had also contemplated a blow at him. The man’s devilish ingenuity appalled him, but it also aroused a fierce anger in his heart that, in the absence of a powerful will, would have moved him to immediate vengeance.
But he contemplated no immediate action. Besides the attack on Nellie Hazelton there was another score to settle with Dunlavey, and when the time came for a final accounting he told himself that he would settle both. He knew there would come such a time. From the beginning he had felt that he and the Circle Cross manager were marked by fate for a clash. He was eager for it, but content to wait until the appointed time. And he knew that the time was not far distant.
Therefore he remained silent regarding the incident, and except to Norton and his wife, Nellie Hazelton, Ten Spot, and himself, the disappearance of Yuma remained a mystery.
Dunlavey, perhaps, might have had his suspicions, but if so he communicated them to no one, and so as the days passed the mystery ceased to be discussed and Yuma was forgotten.
Hollis received a letter from Weary, dated “Chicago,” announcing the safe arrival of himself and Ed Hazelton. “Town” suited him to a “T,” he wrote. But Doctor Hammond would not operate at once–he wanted time to study the symptoms of Ed’s malady. That was all. Hollis turned this letter over to Nellie, with another from Ed, addressed to her–whose contents remained a mystery to him.
Ben Allen had returned from his visit to the small ranchers in the vicinity, had confided to Hollis that he had “mixed a little politics with business,” and then, after receiving a telegram from the Secretary of the Interior, had taken himself off to Santa Fe to confer with the governor.
After several days he returned. He entered the Kicker office to greet Hollis, his face wreathed in smiles.
“You’ve got ’em all stirred up, my boy!” he declared, placing his hand on Hollis’s shoulder with a resounding “smack”; “they’re goin’ to enforce the little law we’ve got and they’ve passed some new ones. Here’s a few! First and foremost, cattle stealing is to be considered felony! Penalty, from one to twenty years! Next–free water! Being as the rivers in this Territory ain’t never been sold with what land the government sharks has disposed of, any cattleman’s got the right to water wherever he wants to. The governor told me that if it’s necessary he’ll send Uncle Sam’s blue coats anywhere in the Territory to enforce that! Third: after a man’s registered his brand he can’t change it unless he applies to the district judge. Them that ain’t registered their brand ain’t entitled to no protection. I reckon there’s trouble ahead for any man which monkeys with another man’s brand!
“Say!” Allen eyed Hollis whimsically; “that new governor’s all het up over you! Had a copy of the Kicker in front of him on his desk when he was talkin’ to me. Says you’re a scrapper from the word go, an’ that he’d back you up long as there was a blue coat anywhere in the Territory!”
Allen’s speech was ungrammatical, but its message was one of good cheer and Hollis’s eyes brightened. The Law was coming at last! He could not help but wonder what Dunlavey’s feelings would be when he heard of it. For himself, he felt as any man must feel who, laboring at a seemingly impossible task, endless and thankless, sees in the distance the possible, the end, and the plaudits of his friends.
Yes, he could see the end, but the end was not yet. He looked gravely at Allen.
“Did you happen to hear when these laws become effective?” he inquired.
“On the first day of October!” returned Allen, triumphantly.
Hollis smiled. “And election day is the third of November,” he said. “That gives Dunlavey, Watkins and Company a month’s grace–in case you are elected sheriff.”
Allen grinned. “They can’t do a heap in a month,” he said.
“No,” returned Hollis, “but in most elections that have come under my observation, I have noticed that the winning candidate does not assume office for a considerable time after the election. What is the custom out here?”
Allen grinned grimly. “Usually it’s two weeks,” he said, “but if I’m elected it will be the next day–if I have to go down to the sheriff’s office and drag Bill Watkins out by the hair!”
“That belligerent spirit does you credit,” dryly observed Hollis. “It will afford me great pleasure to participate in the festivities. But there is another matter to be thought of–which we seem to have overlooked. Usually before an election there is a primary, or a convention, is there not?”
“There is,” grinned Allen. “It’s to-night, and I’m ready for it!” His grin expanded to a wide, whimsical smile. “I told you that I’d been mixing a little politics with business,” he said. “Well, I’ve done so.” He got up and approached the front window of the office, sweeping a hand toward the street. “If you’ll just get up and look out here,” he said, “you’ll see that I ain’t lying. There’s some good in being an ex-office-holder–you get experience enough to tell you how to run a campaign.” He bowed to Hollis. “Now, if you’ll look close at that gang which is mixing palaver in front of the Silver Dollar you’ll mebbe notice that Lemuel Train is in it, an’ Truxton, of the Diamond Dot, Holcomb, of the Star, Yeager, of the Three Diamond, Clark, of the Circle Y, Henningson, of the Three Bar, Toban, of the T Down, an’ some more which has come in for the racket tonight. Countin’ ’em all–the punchers which have come in with the fellows I have named–there’ll be about seventy-five.
“An’, say!” he added, suddenly confronting Hollis and grasping him by the shoulder and shaking him playfully and admiringly, “there wouldn’t a durn one of them have come over here on my account. They up an’ told me so when I asked them. Said they’d nothin’ ag’in me, but they wasn’t considerin’ votin’ at all. But since Hollis wanted me–well, they’d come over just to show you that they appreciated what you’d done for them!”
Hollis smiled. He did not tell Allen that since the appearance of the Kicker containing the announcement that he was to be its candidate he had written every small rancher in the vicinity, requesting as a personal favor that they appear in Dry Bottom on the day of the primary; that these letters had been delivered by Ace, and that when the poet returned he had presented Hollis with a list containing the name of every rancher who had promised to come, and that several days before Hollis had known approximately how many votes Allen would receive at the primary. He did not intend that Allen should know this–or that he had been going quietly from one Dry Bottom merchant to another, appealing to them for their support. And the earnestness with which many of them had promised had convinced him that the primary was to be the beginning of the end for Bill Watkins and Dunlavey.
When he had first come to Dry Bottom it had been universally conceded by the town’s citizens that his differences with Dunlavey and the Cattlemen’s Association were purely personal, and there had been a disposition on the part of the citizens to let them fight it out between themselves. But of late there had come a change in that sentiment. The change had been gradual, beginning with the day when he had told the author of the notice that had appeared on the door of the Kicker office not to hold the express on his account. But the change had come and it was evident that it was to be permanent. It had only been necessary to arouse the government to the situation in order to secure intervention. He had hoped to secure this intervention without being forced to a hostile clash with the opposition, but his first meeting with Dunlavey had spoiled that. Subsequent events had widened the breach.
He was satisfied. Let Bill Watkins be defeated for sheriff and Dunlavey was beaten. But there was much to be done before that desirable end could be achieved.
Following the custom the primary was to be held in the sheriff’s office. Watkins had issued a proclamation some weeks before; it had appeared on the door of the sheriff’s office–a written notice, tacked to the door–but it had been removed the same day. Obviously, it was the sheriff’s intention to conduct the primary as quietly as possible, hoping no doubt to disarm whatever opposition might develop. But Hollis had been apprised of the appearance of the proclamation and had quietly proceeded to plant the seed of opposition to Watkins in the minds of his friends.
He had been warned by Judge Graney that Watkins would try to “pack” the sheriff’s office with his friends on the night of the primary. This had been the usual method employed by Dunlavey when opposition to Watkins developed. Drunken, dissolute, dangerous men were usually on hand to overawe the opposition; the Judge told of instances in which gunplay had developed. But Hollis had determined that Watkins must be beaten.
Allen did not stay long in the Kicker office. Nor, for that matter, did Hollis. Once, during the morning, he went down to the court house to talk with Judge Graney. Then he returned to the Kicker office and worked until noon.
During the morning there had been a surprising influx of visitors. Bronzed punchers on dusty, drooping ponies rode down the town’s one street, dropped from their saddles, and sought the saloons. Groups of them swarmed the streets and the stores. As Hollis walked down to his office after leaving the court house, he was kept busy nodding to friends–many of whom had become such during the later days of the drought. Merchants grinned at him from their doorways; Dunlavey’s friends sneered as he passed or sent ribald jokes after him.
At noon he went to the Alhambra for lunch. Almost the first person he saw there was Dunlavey. The latter grinned at him mockingly.
“Friends of yours in town to-day,” he said with a sneer. “Well, you’ll need them!”
His voice had been loud enough for all in the restaurant to hear. Hollis did not answer, though he appreciated the significance of Dunlavey’s words; they told him that the Circle Cross manager was aware of the contemplated contest and was ready for it.
During the afternoon Dry Bottom presented a decidedly different appearance from the day when Hollis had first viewed it. Animation had succeeded desolation. Perhaps a hundred cowponies were hitched to the rails that paralleled the fronts of the saloons, the stores, and many of the private dwellings. It was apparent that many of the visitors had made the trip to town for the double purpose of voting and securing supplies, for mixed with the ponies were numerous wagons of various varieties, their owners loading them with boxes and crates. Men swarmed the sidewalks; the saloons buzzed.
Toward dusk the volume of noise in the saloons drowned all sound outside. Having made their purchases the ranchers who had driven in for supplies and had loaded their wagons preparatory to departure found time to join their friends and acquaintances over a convivial glass. By the time the kerosene lamps were lighted in the saloons revelry reigned. From one saloon issued the shrieking, discordant notes of a violin, accompanied by the scuffling of feet; from another came laughter and the clinking of glasses; from still another came harsh oaths and obscene shouts. In the latter place rose the laughter of women.
Seated at his desk near the front window of the Kicker office Hollis gravely watched the scene–listened to the sounds. In another chair sat Potter. There was no light in the office; neither man had thought of a light. As the revelry in the saloons increased the printer glanced furtively at his chief.
“There’ll be hell to-night!” he said.
“I expect there will be trouble,” agreed Hollis.
Potter shifted uneasily in his chair, eyeing his employer with a worried expression. He was silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat nervously.
“Do you intend to go there–to the sheriff’s office–to-night?” he questioned.
Hollis looked quickly at him. “Of course!” he said with emphasis. “Why?” he interrogated.
“Nothing,” returned Potter; “only – ” he hesitated and then blurted out: “I wouldn’t go if I were you. They’ve been saying that if you do there’ll be trouble. You know what that means.”
“Who has been saying that?” inquired Hollis.
“I heard it at noon–in the Silver Dollar. Some of Dunlavey’s men sat near me and I heard them saying that Watkins was to win if they had to put two or three of his chief opponents out of business.”
“I have been expecting that,” returned Hollis. He said nothing more and Potter, having done his duty, felt that he had no business to interfere further.
Shortly after dark there was a clatter of hoofs outside the Kicker office and four men dismounted from their ponies and strode to the office door. They were Norton, Ace, Lanky, and Bud. Evidently Hollis had been awaiting their coming, for he met them at the door, greeting them with the words: “We’ll be going at once; it’s about time.”
Followed by Potter the five strode rapidly down the street. When they arrived at the sheriff’s office there were a number of men congregated about the door. Inside a kerosene lamp flickered on a table that sat in the center of the room. Another lamp stood on Watkins’s desk, and beside the desk sat Watkins himself.
