But the Sheriff did not move a muscle, though after a moment he answered coolly:
“Oh, I don’t know as I give a damn...!” Which reply, to say the least, was somewhat disconcerting to the men who had surrounded him and were eyeing him threateningly.
“No talk—we want Johnson,” insisted Trinidad, hotly.
“We want Johnson,” echoed the crowd in low, tense voices, their fists clenched.
And still Rance did not waver, but calmly puffing away at his long, black cigar he looked blankly into space. Presently a voice outside calling, “Boys!” sounded throughout the room and brought him back to actuality. He sat straight up in his chair while Nick, shifting uneasily about on his feet, muttered:
“Why, that’s Ashby!”
“Oh, if—” began the Sheriff and stopped. The next instant the Wells Fargo Agent, a cool, triumphant look on his face, stood framed in the doorway. With a hasty movement towards him Rance asked tensely: “Did you get him?”
The answer came back, almost before the question was asked:
“Yes—we’ve got him.”
“Not Johnson?” demanded Sonora, truculently.