Geerusalem was seething with excitement. The main street was clogged with men, discussing Huntington, Billy Gee, the holdup of the paymaster’s car, the dramatic entry at daybreak of captor and captive while shotgun posses scoured the country over a fifty-mile radius. It was a monumental “catch,” unprecedented in Southwestern history.
As Lemuel rode into view, some one recognized him. News of his presence in camp spread like wildfire. A crowd surged after him, gathering in size. He had not expected an ovation of such an enthusiastic nature, and it embarrassed him. He wished now that he had come in by a back street. His face flaming red, flustered, he looked about over the heads of that stream of humanity that soon packed the thoroughfare from sidewalk to sidewalk, acclaimed him as he rode along.
He spied Mrs. Agatha Liggs. She was standing in the doorway of her little dry-goods store watching his approach. As he came opposite her he smiled and raised his hat. Then he grew abashed. She had not acknowledged the salutation. In the belief that she had not seen the action he bowed again.
She was looking straight at him, and he thought that her thin, pathetic face was unusually pale and drawn, that her fragile little body was more stooped, that her lips were strangely pursed. She looked at him fixedly with an expression in her old eyes so icy, so accusing, as to make him feel foolish and uncomfortable. That look of hers flattened out his conceit as nothing else could have done. He rode on up the street to the bank, dismounted, and went inside, wondering just why Mrs. Liggs had snubbed him.
The huge crowd that had followed him, collected before the building, and watching him through the doors and windows, saw him cash the Mohave & Southwestern’s ten-thousand-dollar certificate check. As he came out the door, acquaintances began hailing him lustily. He heard flattering comments of his valor on every hand.
“Gritty chap. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you?”
“Brought him in single-handed. Fine work, pardner!”
“Done overnight what a hundred posses couldn’t do in ten years.”
“Good boy, Lem! Oh, you Nick Carter!”
Crimson as a turkey gobbler, sweat streaming down his face, he led his horse to a livery stable. Then he strutted down the plank sidewalk, the mob stringing out behind him. Presently he entered an auto-stage office, talked to the ticket seller about mileage and rates, and ended by paying down the rental of a machine, to be ready in an hour. Ten minutes later found him swaggering big-chested into the U. & I. saloon—hangout of the .45-caliber brains of Geerusalem. He glanced boldly around at the uppish fraternity, posed about, fastidious and blasé, deigned them a nod and ordered a drink. This was the red-letter hour in Lemuel Huntington’s life.