“No, Zeke, I'll play this hand alone,” replied Williams, and two minutes later he and I were seated in the buggy, driving towards Kiota.
We had gone more than a mile before he spoke again. He began very quietly, as if confiding his thoughts to me:
“I don't want to make no mistake about this business—it ain't worth while. I'm sure you're right, and Sheriff Samuel Johnson sent you, but, maybe, ef you was to think you could kinder bring him before me. There might be two of the name, the age, the looks—though it ain't likely.” Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:
“Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?”
“I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I've heard that he left after a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner's name was Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye, there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized; he has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caught Williams' bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why he had to leave Missouri I don't know, if Williams drew first.”
“I'm satisfied now,” said my companion, “but I guess you hain't got that story correct; maybe you don't know the cause of it nor how it began; maybe Williams didn't draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the way through; maybe—but thar!—the first hand don't decide everythin'. Your Sheriff's the man—that's enough for me.”
After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridge leading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standing about. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me a little. But I said nothing. We had scarcely passed over half the length of the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty men lounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explain the matter to myself, Williams spoke: “I guess he's got out all the vigilantes;” and then bitterly: “The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn't believe this ef I told it on him, the doggoned mean cuss.”
We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster over the rickety structure), and toiled up the hill through the bystanders, who did not seem to see us, though I knew several of them. When we turned to the right to reach the gate of the Sheriff's house, there were groups of men on both sides. No one moved from his place; here and there, indeed, one of them went on whittling. I drew up at the sidewalk, threw down the reins, and jumped out of the buggy to hitch up the horse. My task was done.
I had the hitching-rein loose in my hand, when I became conscious of something unusual behind me. I looked round—it was the stillness that foreruns the storm.
Williams was standing on the side-walk facing the low wooden fence, a revolver in each hand, but both pointing negligently to the ground; the Sheriff had just come down the steps of his house; in his hands also were revolvers; his deputy, Jarvis, was behind him on the stoop.