Watkins’s face bloated with a sudden anger, but he wheeled without replying and gave his attention to some papers lying on the desk in front of him.
For a long time the four sat in silence. Outside arose voices of men–growing in volume. There was a jam around the door; looking out Hollis could see the bronzed, grim faces of the punchers as they crowded close, moved by a spirit of curiosity. Hollis could hear exclamations of impatience, though the majority of the men outside stood in silence, waiting.
Plainly, nothing was to be done until the arrival of Dunlavey. And presently he came.
He had not been drinking; he was undeniably sober and self-possessed. As he entered the door of the office there was a sudden surge on the part of the crowd–several of the men tried to force their way in behind Dunlavey. But he halted on the threshold, scowling back at them and uttering the one word: “Wait!” The crowd fell back at the command and watched.
Dunlavey stepped across the room, standing beside Watkins, his rapid glance noting the presence of the three members of the opposition. He ignored Hollis and Norton, speaking to Allen.
“So you’re sure enough going to run?” he said.
“Sure,” returned Allen. He rose slowly, stepped deliberately across the room, closed the door, and stood with his back to it.
“We’re all here now,” he said quietly, “and I want to talk a little. There ain’t no one going to hear what I’ve got to say but them I’m going to say it to. I reckon that goes?” He turned to Dunlavey.
Dunlavey had shown some evidence of surprise over Allen’s action in closing the door, but this immediately gave way to a sneer of mockery. “I reckon you’ve forgot Greasy,” he said.
“Why, I sure have!” returned Allen evenly. He opened the door a trifle and called: “Greasy!”