But this ruse of Nick’s met with no greater success than his previous efforts, for Rance, putting his foot down heavily upon the stove, voiced a vigorous protest.
“All right,” said the prisoner, resignedly. Nevertheless, his face reflected his disappointment. Turning now to Nick he thanked him for his efforts in his behalf.
“You must excuse Rance,” remarked the little barkeeper with a significant look at the Sheriff, “for bein’ so small a man as to deny the usual cour-tesies, but he ain’t quite himself.”
Weary of their cavilling, for he believed that in the end the Sheriff would carry his point, and determined to go before his courage failed him, Johnson made a movement towards the door. Speaking bravely, though his voice trembled, he said:
“Come, boys—come.”
But, odd as it may seem, Nick’s words had taken root.
“Wait a minute,” Rance temporised.
The prisoner halted.
“I don’t know that I’m so small a man as to deny the usual courtesies, since you put it that way,” continued Rance. “I always have extended them. But we’ll hear what you have to say—that’s our protection. And it might interest some of us to hear what the Girl will have to say to you, Mr. Johnson—after a week in her cabin there may be more to know than—”
Fire leapt to Johnson’s eyes; he cried hoarsely—