"Yes, Sir, I'll deliver your message a' right," flickered the headlights reassuringly.
The old man stood stolidly and scorched the lady's eyes.
"How long since y'r sheriff thing set out? Did he break loose by the back door?"
"There ain't no back door," snapped the headlights; and the front door slammed in their faces. Wayland burst in a peal of laughter.
"'Tis no laughing matter! 'Tis bad enough t' depend on that broken reed of a dastard coward sheriff hidin' under the bed! A've a mind to go back an' have him oot; but that—pot ash pate—" what else the old man called her was more truthful than elegant for an expurgated age. They replaced the post of the barbed wire gate in its loop and mounted their horses.
"Well, Sir?" asked Wayland. "I don't wish to offend your British sense of law; but which way now?"
The old man left the reins hanging on the broncho's neck. The horses began cropping the grass. The Ranger was fumbling at his stirrup.
"A'm sore puzzled, Wayland! 'Tis not in the blood of a British born to go outside law. Y'r no thinkin' that; are y', Wayland?"
"I am saying nothing! The law protects them in their lawlessness. It doesn't protect us in our lawfulness. The American citizen is the law-maker. There is only one thing for an American citizen to do—get to work and enforce his laws—"
"Then—God's name, Wayland, go ahead and do it! Take the lead! A'll follow! This trail go behind the mountain?"