“What you wantin’ of him?”
“Plenty. We’re deputies. Trevison burned the courthouse and the bank tonight—and killed Braman. We’re after him.”
“Well, he ain’t here.” Barkwell laughed. “Burned the courthouse, did he? An’ the bank? An’ killed Braman? Well, you got to admit that’s a pretty good night’s work. An’ you’re wantin’ him!” Barkwell’s voice leaped; he spoke in short, snappy, metallic sentences that betrayed passion long restrained, breaking his self-control. “You’re deputies, eh? Corrigan’s whelps! Sneaks! Coyotes! Well, you slope—you hear? When I count three, I down you! One! Two! Three!”
His six-shooter stabbed the darkness at the last word. And at his side Weaver’s pistol barked viciously. But the deputies had started at the word “One,” and though Barkwell, noting the scurrying of their horses, cut the final words sharply, the four figures were vague and shadowy when the first pistol shot smote the air. Not a report floated back to the ears of the two men. They watched, with grim pouts on their lips, until the men vanished in the star haze of the plains. Then Barkwell spoke, raucously:
“Well, we’ve broke in the game, Jud. We’re Simon-pure outlaws—like our boss. I got one of them scum—I seen him grab leather. We’ll all get in, now. They’re after our boss, eh? Well, damn ’em, we’ll show ’em! They’s eight of the boys on the south fork. You get ’em, bring ’em here an’ get rifles. I’ll hit the breeze to the basin an’ rustle the others!” He was running at the last word, and presently two horses raced out of the corral gates, clattered past the bunk-house and were swallowed in the vast, black space.
Half an hour later the entire outfit—twenty men besides Barkwell and Weaver—left the ranchhouse and spread, fan-wise, over the plains west of Manti.
They lost all sense of time. Several of them had ridden to Manti, making a round of the places that were still open, but had returned, with no word of Trevison. Corrigan had claimed to have seen him. But then, a man told his questioner, Corrigan claimed Trevison had choked the banker to death. He could believe both claims, or neither. So far as the man himself was concerned, he was not going to commit himself. But if Trevison had done the job, he’d done it well. The seekers after information rode out of Manti on the run. At some time after midnight the entire outfit was grouped near Clay Levins’ house.
They held a short conference, and then Barkwell rode forward and hammered on the door of the cabin.
“We’re wantin’ Clay, ma’am,” said Barkwell in answer to the scared inquiry that filtered through the closed door. “It’s the Diamond K outfit.”