“Sit tight there,” one man called. “No queer stuff now!”
“Where did all this delegation spring from?” Carver demanded.
The sheriff reached the spot and assumed command.
“You, Ben, get his gun,” he ordered and one of the four crowded his horse closer to Carver’s and reached to remove his gun from its holster.
The sheriff reigned over a Kansas county and his jurisdiction did not extend to the Strip, a fact which had not deterred him from crossing the line with his posse when hot after his man. The men were regarding their catch with some doubt.
“Was that buzzard wearing chaps?” one man asked of the others.
Carver grinned and answered the query as if it had been directed at him.
“I couldn’t say as to the style of his pants,” he returned. “But his headgear was black.”
“It was for a fact,” one of the posse testified, eyeing Carver’s battered gray hat.
“What’s all this?” the sheriff demanded. “What about a black hat?”