She was a forceful woman, of startling precision of speech. Annie would not open the door, but surveyed the abject Harris through a crack about two inches wide. The sheriff kept the toe of his boot inside, to prevent Dutch Annie slamming it against them.
"I'm not here to make trouble for you, Annie," he hastened to say, "but just take a look at this feller. Ain't you seen him before?"
"Huh! I reckon so. He done married Sarah last year and run off and left her on my hands. Hush—best to get away quiet. If she hears he's here, there'll be no holding of Sarah."
"That's all," said Lafe, and the door banged in their faces.
"Now," he said to Harris, "you hit for foreign shores. I start shooting at forty. Quick."
This does not pretend to be an exact reproduction of the sheriff's speech, because he had an honest man's loathing and contempt for this kind of male. But it is the gist of his words. The procurer made the first hundred yards in fifteen seconds flat, so the sheriff speeded his count, lest he get out of range. The satisfaction was accorded him of dusting Jackson's heels as he ran, and Lafe repaired to the Cowboys' Rest in a better frame of mind.
"She ain't here," the landlord told him. "She's done gone."
The sheriff found her at the Fashion. "You reckon you're a married woman, I take it, ma'am?'" he inquired cheerily.
"I married him in El Paso. Yes, I had to. He'd paid my fare. Yes, I do."
"Well, you ain't," said Lafe. "He's got one wife already that I know of, that fine gen'l'man, and probably bunches more, besides."