“You bet it is,” bragged Jim. “When the off’cers o’ the law git to sleepin’ with hoss thieves and rustlers, and take two weeks to arrest a bunch of ’em, when they know prezactly where they keep theirselves, and have to have special deputies app’inted over ’em five or six times and then let most o’ the bunch slip through their fingers, it’s time for some one to git busy. And when Jesse Black and his gang are so desp’rit they pizen the chief witnesses—”
A gentle pressure on his arm stopped him. He turned inquiringly.
“I wouldn’t say any more,” whispered Louise. “Let’s get on.”
The hint was sufficient, and with the words, “Right you are, Miss Reporter, we’ll be gittin’ on,” Jim paid his toll and spoke to his team.
“Just wait a bit, will you?” spoke up the sandy man.
“What for?”
“We’re not just ready.”
“Well, we are,” shortly.
“We aren’t, and we don’t care to be passed, you know.”
He spoke indifferently. In deference to Louise, Jim waited. The men smoked on carelessly. The toll-man fidgeted.