“This man is under arrest. And remember I can still shoot straight,” he warned.
Towards him came Madden running, who in Weir’s disappearance earlier in the night he had guessed a pursuit of the cattleman and had therefore returned to the jail. He placed himself at Sorenson’s right.
“Whoever tries to take Sorenson from the hands of the law does so at his own peril,” he exclaimed.
A few mocking shouts resulted. These were gradually increased until the Mexicans, now being joined by scores of others from the street, became a howling, cursing, hysterical mob, crying Sorenson and Burkhardt’s innocence, calling down imprecations on the heads of the sheriff and the engineer, stirred by certain lawless spirits to wilder and wilder passion.
Weir and Madden had not been standing still, for the crowd was not yet numerous enough at first or bold enough to attack. Moreover the two men held their pistols well in view. Forcing Sorenson ahead, driving apart those who blocked their way, they pushed across the yard until but a few paces from the jail.
One Mexican, a ranch hand from one of Vorse’s ranches, wearing a great high-peaked felt hat and chaps, insolently thrust himself before the trio, spitting at Weir’s face and in Spanish begging companions to help him release Sorenson. His right hand was resting on his holster as if but awaiting an excuse to use his gun.
“Get to one side,” was Weir’s harsh order.
The man’s answer was a string of foul curses. Like a panther the engineer leaped forward and struck the fellow on the side of his head with revolver barrel, dropping him where he stood.
As the crowd remained suddenly mute, unmoving, their howls checked by this swift reprisal, Weir spoke to Madden: