“An’ that’s how I happen to be in these parts. I’ve swore to git Billy Gee, dead or alive, an’ that’s what I aim to do. I was at the ranch last night from start to finish—like I jest said. An’ the man that says Lem Huntington is in cahoots with Billy Gee is a damn liar.”
Quintell slipped out from back of the steering wheel and stood up. Neatly groomed, his appearance—compared with the sheriff’s—at once dignified and impressive, he merited in every particular the title he had earned—boss of Geerusalem. With a sharp glance over the crowd, he began in a slow, ringing voice:
“Men of Geerusalem! I want you to all know that, regardless of what this sheriff of San Buenaventura County has said, he is not only an intimate friend of Lemuel Huntington, but the very man who has let Billy Gee slip through his fingers twice. There stands efficiency for you.” He leveled an accusing finger at Warburton. “There’s the stripe of official the taxpayers of this county are supporting—an official who has the audacity to address an intelligent audience of this kind in an endeavor to whitewash the shrewdest crook who ever betrayed the trust of the good people of this camp and section. Gentlemen, it’s this official’s word against mine. I charge Lemuel Huntington with being on intimate terms with an outlaw. Whom are you going to believe?”
A wild, deafening roar went up, increasing in volume as Warburton, his face purple with fury, made an attempt to speak.
“Lynch him! Lynch him! Get Huntington!” howled the multitude.
They swarmed about Quintell’s machine, clamoring their approval of the broker. The din and excitement grew. Sheriff Warburton stood deserted, ignored, outraged. The veins on his forehead and neck were swelled to bursting, his big hands opened and shut with an odd, slow movement. Lex Sangerly, sitting in the seat beside Quintell, watched him curiously. From behind the curtains of a second-story window, Dot and Mrs. Liggs looked down terrified at the mob of infuriated men.
Warburton’s eyes sought the group of cow-punchers again. He stepped down off the chair and reached them in two strides. A few curt words sent them hurrying off to a stable around the nearest corner. Then, his jaw set determinedly, the sheriff elbowed his way through the crowd to the side of Quintell’s machine.
“I’m warnin’ every man here ag’in startin’ anything,” he shouted. “As sheriff of this county, I’ll enforce the law if I got to shoot to do it. Understand that! An’ if I can’t do it, there’s national guards that kin. Keep away from Huntington an’ his ranch, if you ain’t lookin’ for trouble.” He turned to Quintell, who stood eying him venomously. “As for you, Mr. Man, if you don’t want to be throwed in for inspirin’ violence, you’d better git a-goin’. Drive on, or I’ll show you what kind of an official you got to deal with!”
Quintell hesitated; then he slid reluctantly into his seat. As the car started moving off, he fastened his fiery gaze on Warburton.
“We’ll meet again, sheriff,” he snarled back. “You can’t bluff me. You may protect a crook, but you won’t get away with it—not if I can stop it! Huntington goes. Remember that!”