They were saved the journey; Mr. Kelly and Mr. Peacock, the latter bewildered and fear-ridden in the face of the unknown, just then came into the Long Branch. “Only thirty-three for Updegraffe,” said Mr. Kelly. “That’s correct, ain’t it, Peacock?”
Mr. Peacock gasped, but seemed to nod assent.
“Mr. Masterson, it would appear, is elected,” observed Mr. Wright, benignantly, “by a majority of two hundred and twenty-seven. It is a tribute to his popularity. The whole vote, however, is much smaller than I looked for,” and Mr. Wright beamed.
“I think,” said Mr. Kelly, judgmatically, “that thar’s a passel of Updegraffe people stampedin’ about the streets. But, of course, since they weren’t in the Dance Hall, me an’ Peacock had no authority to incloode ’em; did we, Peacock?”
Mr. Peacock mopped his moonlike countenance and shook his head in forlornest fashion. He was too much cast down to oppose the word of Mr. Kelly.
Bear Creek Johnson, eye aflame, a-bristle for trouble, pushed through. Cimarron Bill, who was the soul of business at a time like this, met the outraged Bear Creek in the door.
“Whatever do you reckon you’re after?” queried Cimarron Bill, maintaining the while a dangerous eye.
Bear Creek Johnson surveyed Cimarron Bill, running him up and down with an uneasy, prudent glance. He smelled disaster off him as folk smell fire in a house.
“Me?” he returned, mildly. “Which I simply comes pirootin’ over to move we make the ’lection of Bat Masterson yoonanimous.”
Thus did the ruse de guerre of Mr. Masterson result in victory; thus was he made sheriff of Ford.