“Everybody will say you are running away from the Whittaker case and that you are afraid to face a trial,” said Judge Harlin.
“They may say what they damn please,” replied Mead.
Something like a smothered sob sounded from Tuttle’s chair, and he exclaimed fiercely, “They’d better not say that to me!”
“There’s no likelihood,” said Judge Harlin, “that the grand jury will indict you, as things stand now, or that the case would amount to much if they should. If you want to stay and face the music, Emerson, I don’t think you need to feel apprehensive about the result.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of the trial, if there should be one. But I don’t think there’ll be any. I’m not going to submit to arrest, trial, or anything else, until they can prove that Will Whittaker’s dead, and they can’t do that. I told Wellesly that I would let them arrest me whenever they can prove that Will Whittaker died with his boots on, and I’ll stick to my word. I’ll come back from anywhere this side of hell for my trial whenever they can prove it, and you can tell ’em so, Judge. But I’m tired of this country and done with it, and I mean to pull my freight to-morrow.”
“If you want to start from Plumas you’d better ride over with me,” said Harlin, “and you’d better go prepared for trouble, for the Republicans won’t let you leave the country if they can help it.”
“All right. They can have all the trouble they want.”
“You bet they can! All they want, and a whole heap more than they’ll want when it comes!” exclaimed Nick.
“That’s what’s the matter! We’ll see that they get it!” added Tom.
The next morning they stowed the gold nuggets under the seat of Judge Harlin’s buggy, in which rode Mead and Harlin, with rifles and revolvers. Tuttle and Ellhorn rode on horseback, each with a revolver in his holster and a rifle slung beside him.