“You’ll find out what’s eatin’ me, in jest about ten minutes,” snapped the sheriff. “You git on the job or, by God, you’ll wisht you had! I’m tellin’ you somepn, Mitchell.” Glaring at the other, he turned and walked out of the door.
Mitchell’s rough laugh followed him.
Raging inwardly, cursing to himself, Warburton halted on the sidewalk. Word of his presence in camp had traveled like magic, and the crowd before the hotel was fast filling the street from curb to curb. It was an ominous crowd, the dregs of the settlement mingling with the army of mine workers, with here and there one of Quintell’s associates, circulating through the ranks whispering words of advice. Standing there in full view of the multitude, glancing it over, Warburton marked the hostility in its look and attitude. Caustic remarks began to be directed at him.
“Where’s your bandit friend, sheriff?”
“Hey, fellers, there’s Huntington’s bodyguard!”
“Billy Gee’s duck-hunting on the Huntington ranch, Warburton. Why don’t you go get him?”
Warburton’s jaw set. His eyes flickered dangerously. A few yards away, grouped together on the sidewalk, stood a dozen or more cow-punchers—members of the Las Animas ranch, a large principality of fertile range on the north rim of Soapweed Plains—their great hats and gaudy silk neckerchiefs conspicuous in that sea of drab sameness. Having nothing in common with the men of the mines, they stood, curious spectators of the drama that was being enacted before them, maintaining a strictly neutral attitude in an affair of which they knew absolutely nothing. They had arrived in camp an hour before for a three-day lark and, true to the traditions of their kind, were willing to accept whatever fate tendered them—so long as it promised a departure from the usual humdrum of their daily existence.
Warburton gave them a significant look, then he faced the crowd again and raised his hand for silence.
So it was, that, as Quintell, accompanied by Lex Sangerly, Harrison, and two other men drove down the street in a machine bound for the Lucky Boy placer claims, they found the greatest throng ever assembled in Geerusalem gathered before the Miners’ Hotel, listening to Sheriff Warburton’s defense of Lemuel Huntington. The official was speaking vehemently, angrily, looking massive and potential from his elevated position on a hotel chair.
Quintell, who was driving, steered the car through the jam of men to a point opposite the speaker. He was pale, his eyes blazing with hatred. Warburton was just bringing his talk to a conclusion.