“Maybe you’re a friend of his’n?”
“I don’t know him, but I’d like to meet him.”
“Would you, though?” Turning half round, the bar-keeper took down a bottle and glass, and poured out some whisky, seemingly for his own consumption. Then: “I guess he’s not hard to meet, isn’t Williams, ef you and me mean the same man.”
“I guess we do,” I replied; “Tom Williams is the name.”
“That’s me,” said the tall man who was leaning on the bar near me, “that’s my name.”
“Are you the Williams that stopped Judge Shannon yesterday?”
“I don’t know his name,” came the careless reply, “but I stopped a man in a buck-board.”
Plucking out my revolver, and pointing it low down on his breast, I said:
“I’m sent to arrest you; you must come with me to Kiota.”
Without changing his easy posture, or a muscle of his face, he asked in the same quiet voice: