He charged along the dark hall and got to the front door. It stood wide open. Billy Gee had fled. Halting undecidedly on the threshold, his rifle held ready, Lemuel glared about. The automobile stood at the gate, its headlights blazing. He heard the man of the heavy footfalls plunging down the gravel walk, then his harsh, authoritative tones.
“Stick up yore hands, in the name of the law! Up with ’em, I said, or I’ll blow you to kingdom come!” A dramatic pause, then: “Now march over to the house! Thought you could visit round free an’ easy, eh? Well, yore visitin’ days is about over, sport. Git a hustle on you!”
“This is an outrage, officer. You’ve got the wrong man,” protested the prisoner indignantly.
“Yeh? Well, we’ll see about that. You put it over pretty on the train, kid, but you ain’t never doin’ it ag’in, let me tell you. If you don’t shet yore face, I will. Hey, Lem! Make a light in there. This is Bob Warburton.”
The sheriff, following the clew given him by Tinnemaha Pete—that Billy Gee was at the Huntington ranch—had ridden direct from Blue Mud Spring. Creeping onto the kitchen porch, he had heard the outlaw and Lemuel talking. He had seen the light suddenly extinguished, and had heard the approaching machine. Racing around the house, he had caught sight of a man dodging into the gloom of the garden shrubbery and had apprehended him.
Now, at the sheriff’s words, Lemuel hurried back into the kitchen and lit the lamp. Presently Warburton appeared herding his captive unceremoniously before him. Lemuel stared blankly at the latter, and the official, giving him one look, burst into a torrent of curses. His prisoner was Jule Quintell, pale, unnerved, but furious over the rough reception he had received.
“Isn’t this rather cheap comedy for the sheriff of San Buenaventura County to pull?” sneered the broker. His attitude was one of contempt and defiance.
The sheriff, in the act of hurrying out to make a search of the premises, wheeled, flushing with rage. “Say that ag’in, mister!” He spoke in a voice that Lemuel, in the many years he had known him, had never heard him use before.
“I’m Jule Quintell, of Geerusalem, Sheriff Warburton. I protest emphatically against this sort of treatment,” began the man, assuming an air of resentful dignity.
“Oh, you are! Well, let me tell you somepn, Quintell: You jest make another crack like that, an’ see what happens. I’ve heerd you’re the big I-am over in these parts,” continued Warburton, glowering at the other. “An’ they tell me you got all kinds of pull. But don’t you ever git in my way, Quintell. D’you understand?”