“Will you tell me who I have the honour of addressing?” said Cheyne.
“Sheriff Slocane. I have a warrant for Larry Grant, and you will put me to any inconvenience in carrying it out at your peril.”
Cheyne smiled drily. “Then, as it is evidently some days since you left home, I am afraid I have bad news for you. You are superseded, Mr. Slocane.”
The Sheriff’s face flushed darkly, Clavering’s grew set, and there was an angry murmur from the men behind them.
“Boys,” said Clavering, “are you going to be beaten by Larry again?”
There was a trampling of hoofs as some of the cow-boys edged their horses closer, and the murmurs grew louder; but Cheyne flung up one hand.
“Another word, and I’ll arrest you, Mr. Clavering,” he said. “Sling those rifles, all of you! I have another troop with horses picketed behind the bluff.”
There was sudden silence until the Sheriff spoke. “Boys,” he said, “don’t be blamed fools when it isn’t any use. Larry has come out on top again. But I don’t know that I am sorry I have done with him and the cattle-men.”
The men made no further sign of hostility, and Cheyne turned to the Sheriff. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, I have to inform you that this district is under martial law, and I have been entrusted, within limits, with jurisdiction. If you and Mr. Clavering have any offences to urge against Grant, I shall be pleased to hear you. In that case you can tell your men to picket their horses, and follow me to our bivouac.”
The two men dismounted, and while Hetty sat trembling amidst the birches talked for half an hour in Cheyne’s tent. Then, Clavering, who saw that they were gaining little, lost his head, and stood up white with anger.