Wint was curiously elated. He looked around. A crowd had gathered, and some of the carnival men were pushing through the crowd. There was a belligerent look about them. Then he saw Marshal Jim Radabaugh elbowing through the circle, and Wint was glad to see Jim. He called him:
“Marshal, here’s a man I’ve arrested.”
That halted Rand’s underlings. Rand himself was groaning back to consciousness. Wint pointed down at him. “Take him to jail,” he said.
One of the carnival men protested. Wint turned to him. “Close up your shows, all of you,” he told the man. “Your permit’s cancelled. Get out of town to-morrow.”
Radabaugh had Rand on his feet; he gripped the man, his left hand twisted in the other’s collar. Two or three of Rand’s men surged toward them, and Radabaugh’s gun flickered into sight. It had a steadying effect; no one pressed closer.
All the fighting blood had flowed out of Rand’s smashed lips. He was whining now: “Come, old man, what’s the idea?” Wint and Radabaugh marched him between them through the crowd. Two or three score curious, cheering or cursing spectators followed them to the cells behind the fire-engine house. Rand submitted to being locked up there with no more than querulous protests. He seemed thoroughly tamed. He asked for a lawyer, but Wint said there was no need of a lawyer that night. Two of the fire department, on duty, had come out to see the business of locking up this second prisoner. Radabaugh bade them keep an eye on the cells, and they agreed to do so. Then the marshal scattered the crowd. Wint washed his bruised hands in the engine house. After a little, Radabaugh came in; and Wint asked:
“Is it true you got a man selling?”
“Yes. The capper at the lottery.”
“How’d you get him?”
Radabaugh chuckled, and shifted the lump in his cheek.