The sheriff, ready to make capital for himself in the eyes of the mob which had followed him, put his revolver to his captive’s head and said brutally:
“Git in there or I’ll blow your head off.”
Wolf understood the man’s action, and, fearing the crowd which followed, submitted to be pushed into the cell and was locked in. He still held in his hand the document which had been contemptuously thrust back upon him, and now sat half-stunned by the sudden fury of the white men toward him. That the three cowboys should make trouble did not surprise him—but that all the white men should run toward him with angry faces and armed fists appalled and embittered him. Perhaps there were only a few friendly white men after all. Perhaps the agent was mistaken and the Shi-an-nay must war to the death with these infuriated cattlemen.
“I did wrong to come here,” he thought. “I should have remained deep in my own country among the rocks and the coyotes. I have put myself into the hands of my deadly enemies. I shall die here alone, because I have been a child and have listened to sweet words.”
Meanwhile grossly distorted accounts of the affair passed from saloon to barber shop and at last it took this shape: “A gang of drunken reds had struck Hank Kelly for a drink and when he refused one of them shot him in the stomach. All escaped but one, old Howling Wolf, one of the worst old reprobates that ever lived. He ought to be lynched and we’ll do it yet.”
Bill the cowboy was a hero. He swaggered about saying, “I had him in a hole. I winged him so’t sheriff had him easy.”
Ultimately he grew too drunk to throw any light on the subject at all and his companions took him and fled the town, leaving Howling Wolf to bear the weight of the investigation.
Harry Turtle went to the sheriff and said abruptly: “I want see Howling Wolf.”
“You can’t see him,” replied the sheriff.