“They’re up beyond Hermosa, somewhere at the head of Cuchillo Creek. And I shouldn’t much wonder if they heard about you to-day sometime.” Mr. Gwinne looked through the window at the visible wedge of Hillsboro, wavy low hills and winding streets; looked with long and lingering interest, and added irrelevantly: “I knew your father.”
Late that afternoon a heavy knock came at the outer door of the jail. Gwinne hustled his prisoner into a cell and answered the call.
He was greeted at the door by Aloys Preisser, the assayer, a gay-hearted old Bavarian—the same for whom, in his youth, Preisser Hill was named—and by Hobby Lull. Hobby’s face was haggard and drawn; there were dark circles under his eyes.
“We want to settle a bet,” announced Hobby, “and we’re leaving it to you. I say that Robin Hood knocked out the Proud Sheriff of Nottingham, and Preisser claims it was a draw. How about it?”
“Hood got the decision on points,” said Gwinne soberly.
“There! What did I tell you, you old hunk of Limburger?” Hobby Lull laid hands delicately upon his adversary’s short gray beard and tugged it with deferential gentleness. The unresisting head wagged sedately to and fro. “Take that, you old bug hunter!” said Hobby, and stood back, waiting.
The assayer became statuesque.
“You see, Mister Deputy? He has assauldt gommitted, and you a witness are. With abusive language!”
“The wienerwurst is yet to come,” observed Lull, in a voice sepulchral and ominous.