The first two weeks of October slid swiftly by. Wint heard Routt was planning for a rally or two; and he began to make his own arrangements to a similar end. But in mid-October, word came to him which put the mayoralty race out of his mind.
The word came through Ote Runns, that hopeless drunkard whose cheerful services were in such demand by Hardiston housewives at rug-beating time. Wint met Ote one evening, on his way home, and Ote was bibulously cheerful. He greeted Wint hilariously; and told him in triumphant tones that Hardiston was itself again.
Wint, with a suspicion of what was coming, asked Ote what he meant; and Ote chortled:
“’S a good ol’ town. Good ol’ wet town! Plenny o’ booze now.”
Wint asked Ote where he got it, but the man put his finger to his nose and shook his head. Wint left him and went on his way.
When he got home, he telephoned Radabaugh. “They’re selling again, Jim,” he said.
The marshal asked: “Who?”
“Don’t know,” said Wint. “I met Ote Runns with a load aboard. I want you to get after them right away.”
“I’m started, now,” said Jim Radabaugh. “I’m on my way.”