Somewhat blankly the officer reiterated his pronunciamento. "I don't need no warrant."
"This gun says you need one," came the calm rejoinder. "You've got one yourself, and you can whistle up plenty of other harness bulls—all armed, but if you do I'll get you first. My name is Boone Wellver. Now, are you going to get that warrant or not?"
For an instant the policeman hesitated; then he conceded as though he had never contested the point.
"I ain't got no objection in the world to swearing out a warrant for you—since you've told me what your name is. But don't try to make no get-away till I come back."
"I'll be right here—when you come back."
The patrolman turned and walked away, and Boone wheeled briskly to the car.
"Now you gentlemen get out of this—and do a little warrant-swearing yourselves. Be over at Central Station in about forty-five minutes fixed to give bond for me. I reckon I'll be needing it."
Ten minutes later, with a spectacular clanging of gongs, a police patrol clattered up, scattering the crowd and disgorging a wagonload of officers headed by a lieutenant with a drawn pistol.
They handled Boone with unnecessary roughness as they nipped the handcuffs on his wrists and bundled him into the wagon, but he had expected that. It was their cheap revenge, and he gave them no satisfaction of complaint.
In the cage at Central Station into which they thrust him, with more violence, his companions were a drunken negro and one or two other "election offenders" like himself.