He said, “What is technically known as the good old runaround. It might be a coincidence, but it’s a hundred to one the sheriff has been got at. Only he couldn’t come out in the open and refuse to do anything — that’d be as good as putting a rope round his neck. So he just can’t be found. When he can be found it’s too late, and then it’s just too goddam bad. You can go on from there.”
Morland sat with his hands clasped and his forearms on his knees; not fuming or fidgeting, and Simon realised that he was not really weak and foolish. He was just stumbling in a new language.
Then he looked up suddenly, and his eyes were hard and bright.
“Now I know what you all meant this morning,” he said. “You must have thought I was very stupid. I was. But I won’t be any more. If I’ve got to fight to keep this place, I’ll fight. I don’t care what happens. I’ll get a gun and fight for it with every one of you who’ll stand by me.”
A slow smile came to the Saint’s lips.
“That’s the kind of talk the boys are waiting to hear, Don,” he said, and took himself off the porch rail. “Tell ’em ’bout it when they come in. They’ll cheer you.” He flipped the end of his cigarette away on to the drive. “Now I’m going into town and attend to a couple of little things myself.”
Jean Morland said slowly, as if she was asking for a new hope to be kindled, “Perhaps you could find the sheriff—”
The Saint shook his head.
“I’m not even going to try. This is something much more important. I’ll be back in time for supper, and I may be able to tell you about it then.”
Morland stood up.