The half-breed glanced through his tangled hair at the major in some wonder, not only at the question, but at the almost childish eagerness with which it was asked.
“I didn't hear much of anything else,” he answered grimly.
“And—what did they SAY?”
“Said you'd got to be TOOK anyhow! They allowed the new sheriff would do it too.”
The major laughed. “Well, you heard HOW the new sheriff did it—skunked away with his whole posse before one-eighth of my men! You saw how the rest of this camp held up your nine troopers, and that sap-headed cub of a lieutenant—didn't you? You wouldn't have been standing here if you hadn't. No; there isn't the civil process nor the civil power in all California that can take me out of this camp.”
But neither his previous curiosity nor present bravado seemed to impress the ragged stranger with much favor. He glanced sulkily around the cabin and began to shuffle towards the door.
“Stop! Where are you going to? Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
The fugitive hesitated for a moment, and then dropped ungraciously on the edge of a camp-stool near the door. The major looked at him.
“I may have to remind you that I run this camp, and the boys hereabouts do pretty much as I say. What's your name?”
“Tom.”