“I suppose you’ve come to collect that thrashing?” he said.
Dunlavey dismounted quickly, his right hand flew to his holster, drawing his revolver. He came toward Hollis crouching, a cold, merciless glitter in his eyes.
“Yes, you tenderfoot — —.” he snarled.
From the moment of Hollis’s arrival at the court house the night before Ben Allen had been constantly in action. It was late in the morning when he had returned to the court house with his prisoners. The men who had been captured with Dunlavey were still with the troopers, there not being sufficient room at the court house for them. Watkins had been released and Dunlavey had taken his place in the little room that answered for a jail. Shortly before noon Allen proceeded to the station, where he telegraphed to the governor the story of the capture. He had then deputized a dozen punchers and sent them to the Circle Cross to round up a thousand of Dunlavey’s cattle and hold them until the late afternoon when, according to Allen’s published program, they were to be sold to the highest bidder. Then, tired and hungry, Allen sought the Alhambra and ate a hearty meal.
Dry Bottom was swarming with visitors that had come in for the sale. But by the time Allen had finished eating the exodus had begun. The trail leading to the Circle Cross ranch was dotted with probable bidders, curiosity seekers, idlers, and mere residents of the town. Now that the law had come there were many who discovered that their sympathies had always been with the men who had championed it. Allen found his way to the court house strewn with men who halted him to express their good will. Many people gathered in front of the Kicker office, eager for a glimpse of Hollis. Those who gathered there before twelve-thirty saw him seated at his desk, tall, angular, serious of face, absolutely unaffected by this thing which had caused a sensation. Passing the Kicker office on his way to the court house, Allen had paused to look within and shout a greeting to him. Then he had continued on his way.
Arriving at the court house Allen looked in at Dunlavey to find him lying on the floor, apparently asleep. Allen did not disturb him. He went out, threw the saddle on his pony, and rode over to the grove where the soldiers were quartered, talking long with the captain. At two o’clock he returned to the court house to be greeted with the news that Dunlavey had escaped. Allen did not stop to inquire how the escape had been accomplished. He remounted his pony and raced down to the Kicker office, fearing that Dunlavey had gone there. Potter informed him that his chief had departed for the Circle Bar fully an hour and a half before. He had taken the Coyote trail–Potter had watched him.
Allen wheeled his pony and returned to the court house. He was met at the door by Judge Graney. The latter’s face was white and drawn with fear.
“He’s gone to kill Hollis!” the judge told him through white, set lips. “I heard him threaten Hollis this morning and a moment ago a man told me that he had seen Dunlavey, not over half an hour ago, riding out the Coyote trail at a dead run!”
Allen’s own face whitened. He did not stop to answer but drove the spurs deep into his pony’s flanks and rode furiously down the street toward a point near the Kicker office where he struck the trail.