"Say," cried the gentleman of the peg-tops, "ain't I got anything to say in this? You're getting too gay, you two. Do you hear? Ain't a man got any rights in this country? I can run my wife alone, can't I?"
"Does this here party belong to you, ma'am? Are you his wife?"
"No."
"What? You ain't? You sit there and say you ain't my wife? Why—"
"I married him, but I'm not his wife."
"Sure," said the sheriff, "I see. I don't blame you, ma'am." He put on his hat. The other was watching him doubtfully.
"You come along with me," said Lafe.
"Come along, my foot. What do you think you are, anyway?"
"That's all right. I'm sheriff here. And if I wasn't, I'd take you along. It's one of the rules of this here town that a man can't talk to his wife like you done. Understand? Get a-going, now. I'm liable to get peevish directly."
Still he hesitated. Lafe was growing angry. His rage always seemed sudden, but this was by design. In reality it was the release of long-pent and controlled passion.