"Is that you, Brennan?"
The marshal hoisted himself to the top of the rock, the revolver in his
hand clearly revealed in the bright sunlight.
"It's me all right, Lacy," he replied deliberately. "You ought ter
organise a sharpshooters' club among that gang o' yours; I was plumb
disgusted the way they handle fire-arms."
"Well, we've got yer now, Dan, so yer might as well quit yer crowin'.
We don't have ter do no more shootin'; we'll just naturally sit down
yere, an' starve yer out. Maybe yer ready to talk now?"
"Sure; what's the idea?"
"Well, yer an officer ov the law, ain't yer? Yer was chose marshal ter
keep the peace, an' take care o' them that raised hell in Haskell.
Ain't that yer job?"
"I reckon it is."
"And didn't I do more'n anybody else ter get yer appointed? Then what
are yer goin' back on me for, and the rest ov the boys, an' takin'
sides along with a murderer? We want Jim Westcott, an' you bet we're
a-goin' ter get him."
The little marshal spat into the water below, his face expressionless.
To all appearances he felt slight interest in the controversy.
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