"If you give in, your chances for re-election ain't worth a leatherette," Yarpe said to the sheriff.
"You crazy fool! You wouldn't charge that hill?" asked the sheriff.
"That's what I would, and that's what the boys come for."
"But what good would it do?"
"It would learn these red devils a lesson they wouldn't forget, and it would make you an' me the most popular men in the county. If you don't do it, you're dead as the hinges of hell."
"If you charge that hill, some of you will stay there," put in Curtis.
Yarpe turned and roared: "Boys, the sheriff has weakened. Will you follow me?"
"We will!" shouted the reckless majority.
At this precise moment, while looking over the sheriff's head towards the pinon-spotted hill to the west, Curtis caught the gleam of something white bobbing down the hill. It disappeared, but came into sight lower down, a white globe based in a splash of blue. It was a white helmet, topping the uniform of a cavalry officer. A sudden emotion seized Curtis by the throat—his heart warmed, swelled big in his bosom. Oh, the good old color! Now he could see the gauntleted gloves, the broad shoulders, the easy seat of blessed old Jack Maynard as he ambled peacefully across the flat.
"Look there!" he cried, turning to the group inside the gate, his finger pointing like a pistol. His voice rang out joyous as a morning bugle, and the girls thrilled with joy.