Barrett looked past the man at the door. The dingle was full of crowding faces, for the altercation had called every man out. There was some consolation for Barrett in the spectacle of this silent, wondering mob. After all, he was on his own land, and these men must acknowledge him as their master.
“Here! a hundred dollars apiece to the men who grab that lunatic and take that rifle away from him!” he shouted, darting a quivering finger at the warden. But before any one made a move Withee stepped forward into the lamplight. With open, waving palm he imposed non-interference on his crew.
“Hold on, Mr. Barrett,” said he. “Before we run into trouble by arresting a man that’s an officer, we want to know whys and wherefores.”
“Don’t you know why he wants to make me go away into the woods?” bawled the lumber king.
“We can’t very well know without bein’ told,” replied Withee, and an answering grumble from his men indorsed him.
“He wants to murder me—murder me in cold blood!” Barrett fairly screamed this. “I know what his reason is,” he added, seeing that their faces showed no conviction.
“I’ve known Linus Lane ever since he came into this region,” said Withee, breaking the awed hush that followed the baron’s startling words. “I never knew him to be anything but peaceable and square. A little speck odd, maybe, but quiet and peaceable and square. Most of the men here know him that way, too.”
Another answering mumble of assent.
“Odd!” echoed Barrett, grasping at the suggestion. “You’ve said it. He’s a lunatic. He will kill me.”