In a tone of utter astonishment he repeated my words, “Sheriff Samuel Johnson!”
“Yes,” I replied, “Samuel Johnson, Sheriff of Elwood County.”
“See here,” he asked suddenly, fixing me with a look of angry suspicion, “what sort of a man is he? What does he figger like?”
“He's a little shorter than I am,” I replied curtly, “with a brown beard and bluish eyes—a square-built sort of man.”
“Hell!” There was savage rage and menace in the exclamation.
“You kin put that up!” he added, absorbed once more in thought. I paid no attention to this; I was not going to put the revolver away at his bidding. Presently he asked in his ordinary voice:
“What age man might this Johnson be?”
“About forty or forty-five, I should think.”
“And right off Sam Johnson swore you in and sent you to bring me into Kiota—an' him Sheriff?”
“Yes,” I replied impatiently, “that's so.”