“Who’s there?” demanded Lize.
“The law!” replied a wheezy voice. “Open in the name of the law!”
“It’s old Higley,” announced Lize. “Open the door, Ross.”
“Come in, Law,” she called, ironically, as the justice appeared. “You look kind of mice-eaten, but you’re all the law this blame town can sport. Come in and do your duty.”
Higley (a tall man, with a rusty brown beard, very much on his dignity) entered the room, followed by a short, bullet-headed citizen in a rumpled blue suit with a big star on his breast. Behind on the sidewalk Ballard and a dozen of his gang could be seen. Sam Gregg, the moving cause of this resurrection of law and order, followed the constable, bursting out big curses upon his son. “You fool,” he began, “I warned you not to monkey with them sheep. You—”
Higley had the grace to stop that. “Let up on the cuss-words, Sam; there are ladies present,” said he, nodding toward Lee. Then he opened upon Cavanagh. “Well, sir, what’s all this row? What’s your charge against these men?”
“Killing mountain sheep. I caught them with the head of a big ram upon their pack.”
“Make him show his commission,” shouted Gregg. “He’s never been commissioned. He’s no game warden.”
Higley hemmed. “I—ah—Oh, his authority is all right, Sam; I’ve seen it. If he can prove that these men killed the sheep, we’ll have to act.”
Cavanagh briefly related how he had captured the men on the trail. “The head of the ram is at the livery barn with my horse.”