Said the sheriff: "Hurry up, Harris."
"My name ain't Harris. It's Jackson."
"Jackson or Harris, it's all the same to me. You were Harris when me and Buf'lo Jim done run you out of Cananea. I reckon you ain't forgot that, have you?"
A quick glimmer of recognition showed that Mr. Harris had not. He sobered with amazing celerity.
"Where're we going?" he asked.
"You get moving first," said the sheriff, "and then we'll figure on that."
"I won't go," was the emphatic rejoinder. "No, sir; not me. Tell him to leave us alone, Hetty. I'm within my rights. And you're framing up something. I can tell."
"Say, Harris, you're fixing to get hurt awful bad." The sheriff's air was regretful. He stepped to the door and held it open, nodding at Jackson. That young man gave him a swift look and banged his hat down over his curling bang. Without even a word to the girl, who was regarding the tableau much as a spectator from a seat in the stalls, he walked out. The sheriff followed. Within a minute he stuck his head inside again to say: "I'll be back right away." She made no response.
The two walked out to the residence of Dutch Annie, Johnson a yard in advance.
Dutch Annie said: "Don't you bring that rat in here, Mr. Johnson."