Conversation died away as Hollis and his men approached the door and stood in the stream of light from the interior. A man stepped out of the shadow of the building and approached Hollis, drawing him and Norton aside. It was Allen. The latter had lost some of the sprightliness that had marked his manner during his conversation with Hollis in the Kicker office that morning–he was again the cool, deliberate, steady-eyed man he had been that day in Judge Graney’s office when Hollis had met him the first time.
“I’ve been waitin’ for you,” he said; “we’re goin’ to have a scrumptuous time. Dunlavey’s planning to pack her.” He swept a hand toward the interior of the office. “But each candidate is to be allowed two witnesses. I’ve selected you two. Dunlavey and Greasy are doing the honors for Watkins. We might just as well go inside; we can’t do anything out here. There won’t be anything done by any of this gang until Dunlavey says the word.”
He turned and stepped into the sheriff’s office, Hollis and Norton following.
Watkins looked up and surveyed them with a bland smile as they entered and dropped quietly into the several chairs that had been provided.
“I reckon she’s goin’ to be some hot tonight?” significantly remarked Watkins, addressing himself to Allen.
“Maybe,” grinned Allen.
“We’re goin’ to take a hand in handlin’ the Law,” significantly remarked Norton.
Watkins’s face reddened. He stared offensively at Hollis.
“I reckon you’re a witness, too,” he said, sneering. “Well,” he went on as Hollis gravely nodded, “the law says that a witness to the count must be a resident of the county. An’ I reckon you ain’t. You ain’t been—”
“He stays,” interrupted Allen, shortly. “That’s settled.”