"Dead sure thing," returned the Shadow, unabashed. "If Macguire had got ahead o' me, Mackay would have squelched the life outen him first chance. See?"
Jackson evidently saw, for he departed on his quest, laughing heartily.
Left to himself the Shadow carelessly walked out into the street, and as luck would have it blundered right into the trouble his friends had been so anxious for him to avoid. Returning from the Warden's office came Macguire and his aide-de-camp driving furiously, and the roar of pent-up anger which burst from the bully's lips on seeing the imperturbable Shadow step forth from the hotel would have done credit to a full-grown grizzly bear that had just been cheated of its supper. The buggy stopped with a jerk, and as if by magic a motley throng crowded round.
"That's him! that's the young demon!" howled the discomfited man in a perfect paroxysm of rage. "He stole my horse, he—he—get out and kill the young cub, Hawkins. Get out I say!"
"If I were you I reckon I'd sit tight," advised the Shadow, serenely. "I could pretty well squash you in one act, I could."
And Hawkins was evidently of the same opinion, for he absolutely refused to make any movement. With a baleful glitter in his bloodshot eyes, Macguire himself stepped down; had the great hulking brute but known it, he was at that moment no match for his lithe and muscular adversary, who, in his conscious strength, stood his ground unafraid. But there came a sudden interruption from the outside of the interested crowd.
"None of that, Macguire, or I'll be forced to explain some things you won't like."
It was a sharp authoritative warning, and it issued from the Warden who now pushed his way to the front.
"He stole my horse," began the baulked ruffian in a voice hoarse with suppressed passion.
"That's too thin, sir. From what I have heard, all your horses returned home of their own accord this morning. In any case, if you have a complaint to make, the public street is not a court house."