During the next quarter of an hour he gave more attention to Dunlavey than to the steady stream of men that passed through the room, though he recognized a goodly number as friends he had made during the latter days of the drought.
Allen’s spirits had risen during the last quarter of an hour. His maneuver had dissipated Dunlavey’s strength and it was plain to be seen that a majority of the votes cast were for him. If nothing unusual or unexpected happened within the next hour, or until nine o’clock, the hour named in Watkins’s proclamation for the closing of the polls, he was assured of victory.
Thoughts of the same character were passing through Hollis’s mind. There was silence in the office. A man was voting at the table–writing his favorite’s name on a piece of paper. Hollis consulted his watch. It lacked over an hour of the time for closing. The man at the table finished writing and tossed the paper into the hat. Hollis opened the rear door to allow him to go out. While the door remained open a sound floated in, which they all heard–an ear-splitting screech, followed instantly by a chorus of yells, a pistol report, more yells, and then a number of reports.
Norton did not open the door. He exchanged glances with Hollis and Allen. Dunlavey grinned widely.
“Something’s coming,” remarked Allen grimly.
Dunlavey’s grin grew derisive. “It would sure be too bad if my friends should bust up this peace meeting,” he sneered.
“There won’t be nothin’ spoiled,” grimly assured Allen. But he drew his other six-shooter.
The sounds outside grew in volume as they swept toward the sheriff’s office. They broke presently at the door and an ominous silence succeeded. Then a voice reached the interior–harsh authoritative–Ten Spot’s voice.
“Open up, you damned shorthorns!” it said.
Norton looked at Allen. The latter’s face was pale. “They come in,” he directed, “like the others–one at a time.”