When Calumet wheeled, his six-shooter was in his hand. At his shoulder, having evidently followed him from across the street, stood a man. He was lean-faced, hardy-looking, with a strong, determined jaw and steady, alert eyes. He was apparently about fifty years of age. He grinned at Calumet's belligerent motion.
"Hearin' me?" he said to Calumet's cold, inquiring glance.
The latter's eyes glowed. "Layin' for me, eh? Thanks." He looked curiously at the other. "Who are you?" he said.
"I'm Dave Toban, the sheriff." He threw back one side of his vest and revealed a small silver star.
"Correct," said Calumet; "how you knowin' me?"
"Knowed your dad," said the sheriff. "You look a heap like him. Besides," he added as his eyes twinkled, "there ain't no one else in this section doin' any buildin' now."
"I'm sure much obliged for your interest," said Calumet. "An' so Taggart's lookin' for me?"
"Been in town a week," continued the sheriff. "Been makin' his brags what he's goin' to do to you. Says you wheedled him into comin' over to the Lazy Y an' then beat him up. Got Denver Ed with him."
Calumet's eyes narrowed. "I know him," he said.
"Gun-fighter, ain't he?" questioned the sheriff.