“It’s a warrant,” said the sheriff, half in apology. And then to Sprague: “I hate like the mischief to trouble you, Mr. Sprague, but duty’s duty.”
Sprague smiled up at the big man. “Tell us about it, Mr. Harding. You needn’t bother to read the warrant.”
“It’s that scrap you had with Jennings up at the Mesquite this morning. He’s swore out a warrant against you for assault and battery.”
“And are you going to lock me up over night? I fancy that is what he would like to have you do.”
“Not me,” said the sheriff good-naturedly. “I got Judge MacFarland out o’ bed and made him come down to his office. I’m goin’ to ask you to walk around there with me, just to let me out of it whole. I’ve fixed it with the judge so you won’t have to give bail.”
“I’ll go with you,” Stillings offered; and a few minutes later, in the magistrate’s office, the Government man had bound himself on his own recognizance to appear in court the next morning to answer the charge against him.
On the sidewalk in front of the justice shop, Stillings reverted to the more pressing matter.
“I’m going to see Smith before I sleep, if I have to drive out to the Baldwin ranch to find him,” he declared. “In the meantime, Mr. Sprague, if you can devise any scheme by which we can get a legal hold on these fellows—anything that will serve as an excuse for our asking that an injunction be issued——”
“That would come before Judge Watson, wouldn’t it?” Sprague broke in.
“Yes.”