Bill's big, slow voice was heard again in its careless drawl. "Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious hurry. Where you goin' to take him to?"
"County jail, of course, at Jansen," was Hardy's answer.
Bill then asked, as he surveyed Hawkins's gang, who were whispering together with several of the hangers-on of the place, "How do you know the friends of the deceased won't take him away from you and hang him to the nearest telegraph-pole, eh?"
It was lightly said, and as he said it Bill laid his big hand on Bud's shoulder. He must conciliate the Sheriff, gain time—anything.
But Bud shook Bill off. "Are you goin' to interfere with me in the discharge of my duty?" he blustered.
"Not a bit, Bud, not a bit," Bill said; then, with sudden resolve—it would mean his life, and the lives of others against them, perhaps, but he meant to fight if necessary—he added: "But we're goin' to see that you do it. We ain't afraid of a trial and a jury." He took the crowd into his confidence. "There isn't a jury in the State that wouldn't present the prisoner with a vote of thanks and a silver service for gettin' rid of Cash Hawkins."
He turned to Bud with his men about him. "Who's goin' to help you take him seventy-five miles to jail?" he demanded. "Will you swear us in?"
But Bud only answered, "You can't intimidate me, Bill."
"As defunct has a gun in each hand it's a plain case of self-defence, anyway." Bill pointed to the two revolvers still clutched in the dead man's stiffening hands.
"I don't stand for this," thundered Bud. "Clear the room."