“Yes, sir,” said Bob; “just as soon as I get my lessons.”
Hale did not go to the boarding-house that night—he feared to face June. Instead he went to the hotel to scraps of a late supper and then to bed. He had hardly touched the pillow, it seemed, when somebody shook him by the shoulder. It was Macfarlan, and daylight was streaming through the window.
“A gang of those Falins are here,” Macfarlan said, “and they're after young Dave Tolliver—about a dozen of 'em. Young Buck is with them, and the sheriff. They say he shot a man over the mountains yesterday.”
Hale sprang for his clothes—here was a quandary.
“If we turn him over to them—they'll kill him.” Macfarlan nodded.
“Of course, and if we leave him in that weak old calaboose, they'll get more help and take him out to-night.”
“Then we'll take him to the county jail.”
“They'll take him away from us.”
“No, they won't. You go out and get as many shotguns as you can find and load them with buckshot.”
Macfarlan nodded approvingly and disappeared. Hale plunged his face in a basin of cold water, soaked his hair and, as he was mopping his face with a towel, there was a ponderous tread on the porch, the door opened without the formality of a knock, and Devil Judd Tolliver, with his hat on and belted with two huge pistols, stepped stooping within. His eyes, red with anger and loss of sleep, were glaring, and his heavy moustache and beard showed the twitching of his mouth.