"Yup, I was shootin', all right," he grinned, "but he'd of had to be'n ten foot tall fer me to of hit him. It wouldn't of looked right fer me not to of be'n a-shootin'."
"But, won't they shoot him when he tries to get away?"
The grin widened: "They won't. Tell him to come bustin' right out the front way on the high lope, right into the middle of 'em. I know them hombres an' believe me, it's goin' to be fun to see 'em trompin' over one another a-gittin' out of the road. By the time they git in shootin' shape, he'll be into the dark."
"But, they'll follow him."
"Yes, mom. But they ain't goin' to ketch him. That horse of mine kin run rings around anything they've got. Better hurry now, 'fore Hod thinks about that beer-kaig shoot."
"Oh, how can I thank you?"
"Well, you might set up a brass statoo of me acrost from the post office—when the sun hit it right it would show up clean from the top of the divide."
Alice giggled, as the man extended his hand: "Here's a couple more matches. You better run along, now. Jest tell that there Texas cyclone that Ike Stork says this here play is the best bet, bein' as they'll starve him out if a stray bullet don't find its way between them kaigs an' git him first."
She took the matches and once more paused in the doorway and lighted her candle. As she disappeared into the interior, Ike Stork shifted his position upon the edge of the horse trough and grinned broadly as his eyes rested upon the men huddled together in the darkness in front of the saloon.
The girl crossed to the bar, and reading the question in the Texan's eyes, shook her head: "He won't do it," she said, "he's just as mean, and stubborn, and self-important and as rude as he can be. He says he's going to arrest you, and he's going to hold you for a few days in jail to see if there isn't a reward offered for you somewhere. He thinks, or pretends to think, that you're some terrible desperado."