“Homesteaders,” was the answer. “We want the Sheriff.”
“Well,” said somebody, “I’ll tell him.”
Except for a growing clamour in the street behind there was silence until Breckenridge, who stood near Grant touched him,
“I don’t want to meddle, but aren’t we giving them an opportunity of securing their prisoners or making their defences good?” he said.
“That’s sense, any way,” said another man. “It would be ’way better to go right in now, while we can.”
Grant shook his head. “You have left this thing to me, and I want to put it through without losing a man. Men don’t usually back down when the shooting begins.”
Then a voice rose from the building: “You wanted the Sheriff. Here he is.”
A shadowy figure appeared at a window, and there was a murmur from Grant’s men.
“He needn’t be bashful,” said one of them. “Nobody’s going to hurt him. Can’t you bring a light, so we can see him?”
A burst of laughter followed, and Grant held up his hand. “It would be better, Sheriff; and you have my word that we’ll give you notice before we do anything if we can’t come to terms.”