“Well?” Vorse inquired softly.
His arched bony nose appeared thinner and more hawk-like. His lips were compressed in a white scornful smile, while his eyelids now drooped until but slits of light showed from the orbs.
“And you may be interested to know Burkhardt and some of the Mexicans he hired are now locked up in jail; the rest, or nearly all, are dead,” Weir continued, with slow distinctness. “Your little scheme to blow up the dam and burn the camp failed. We caught Burkhardt at the spot leading the gang. Your plot to make the workmen drunk and leave the dam unprotected worked well enough so far as that part was concerned, but a keg of powder dropped on your bunch of imported bandits ended that part of the show. And we have Burkhardt! You gentlemen are going to join him in the jail, where we shall give you all the care and attention you deserve.”
Vorse turned his head about towards Sorenson.
“Do you hear?” he asked.
“Madden, you’ve too much sense to believe all this trumped-up libel!” Sorenson exclaimed furiously. “About us, respected leaders of this town! Arrest the blackguard!”
Even facing assured proof of his complicity and guilt, the cattleman still believed in the power of his wealth and influence, in his ability to browbeat opponents, to command the man he had elected to office, to dominate and ruthlessly crush by sheer will power all resistance, as he had done for years.
“I take no orders from you,” the sheriff replied.
“Well, I suppose I can empty the till and lock the safe before going?” Vorse questioned.