The crowd of men who rode out from town on the north road was headed by the two Running Dog riders, who now had Chuck Hansom to avenge. Only their savage spurrings had availed to rouse the crowd, in fact; nobody was quite certain whether Miguel Cervantes had been murdered by Fisher or by Templeton Buck. The fall of Galway Mike and Chuck Hansom had considerably cooled the enthusiasm of the mob, and by this time many tales of Sam Fisher were being circulated.
Thus, by the time the crowd of riders came toward the crossroads, not a few of them had trailed off back to town. Under the starlight the men rode in a clump at a steady jog. Hereabouts the road was edged by a dense thicket of manzanita. From this thicket came a drawling voice that caused every rein to jerk sharply at the bit.
“That’s far enough, boys; halt! You fellers from the Circle Bar—got the front ones covered? We’ll attend to the rear.”
“We got ’em, sheriff,” came a deep bass voice.
“Leave ’em to us!” said a sharp falsetto. Steve Arnold laughed from somewhere.
“Sure, Fisher; sure! Go ahead with your palaver.”
The crowd halted as one man. Their imaginations painted a dozen voices from the clumps of brush. They saw themselves trapped, surrounded. Men cursed and drew rein.
“I want a little talk, boys,” said the invisible sheriff of Pecos. “We don’t aim to have any more bloodshed than we got to, and you fellers are honest enough in your convictions. Willing to listen a minute?”
“Sure,” said a nervous voice from the crowd.
“That’s sensible.” Fisher’s tone was grave, steady, holding them spellbound. “I’ll be at the Lazy S to-morrow to meet the coroner and the preacher. This Cervantes murder is going to be handled by the law. You may think I did it; all right. To-morrow the coroner’s jury will decide that little matter, and I’m spilling no secret when I say their verdict is going to be hard on Templeton Buck.