The sheriff’s office was in a little frame shanty not over sixteen feet square, crude and unfinished. There were a front and back door, two windows–one in the side facing the court house, the other in the front. For furniture there were a bench, two chairs, some shelves, a cast iron stove, a wooden box partly filled with saw-dust which was used as a cuspidor, and a rough wooden table which served as a desk. In a chair beside the desk sat a tall, lean-faced man, with a nose that suggested an eagle’s beak, with its high, thin, arched bridge, little, narrowed, shifting eyes, and a hard mouth whose lips were partly concealed under a drooping, tobacco-stained mustache. He turned as the three men entered, leaning back in his chair, his legs a-sprawl, motioning them to the chairs and the bench. They filed in silently. Greasy dropped carelessly into one of the chairs, Norton took another near him, but Hollis remained standing.
“You are the sheriff, I suppose?” inquired the latter.
The official spat copiously into the wooden box without removing his gaze from the three visitors.
“Yep,” he returned shortly, his voice coming with a truculent snap. “You wantin’ the sheriff?”
Hollis saw a swift, significant glance pass between him and Greasy and he smiled slightly.
“Yes,” he returned quietly; “we want you. We are delivering this man into your custody.”
“What’s he done?” demanded the sheriff.
“I charge him with stealing two of my steers,” returned Hollis. “Several of my men discovered him at work the day before yesterday and—”
“Hold on a minute now!” interrupted the sheriff. “Let’s git this thing goin’ accordin’ to the law.” He spat again into the wooden box, cocked his head sideways and surveyed Hollis with a glance in which there was much insolence and contempt. “Who might you be?” he questioned.
“My name is Hollis,” returned the latter quietly, his eyes meeting the other’s steadily. “I own the Circle Bar.”