“Git him?” the crowd yelled. “We’ll git you, you bosco—you white-livered whelp—you low-down, ornery—”
And they meant it, too!
“Git your rope, Stuffy,” some one cried. “We’ll give that hombre a ride.”
Gallup and Kent glanced at Hobe. The big foreman’s face was black with hatred. “Come on,” they heard him grumble; “we’re goin’ up there.”
“He only did what he was told to do,” the sheriff hurried to explain. “I swore him in. He’s within the law.”
“Law?” Hobe’s jaw looked dangerous. “Ain’t no law that’ll let a man murder his pal. To hell with your law! We’re goin’ to git him!”
Roddy’s face paled at the crowd’s answer to this statement. Kent, however, was less frightened.
“I’m tellin’ you, boys,” the old man cried. “Ain’t no man workin’ for me that touches that Basque. I wanted my girl. He got her for me.”
“Well, I’m tellin’ you, Kent,” Hobe ground out, “it’s either me or the Basque. We don’t ride the same range after this.”
There wasn’t even the smallest bit of bluff about this. Kent realized it, too. He could ill afford to lose Hobe. “The Basque’ll go, then,” he said grudgingly, “but I’ll not see him hung.”