There was a moment of stunned silence; then a rush of spectators for the alien. The sheriff's three-hundred-and-nine-pound bulk bellied through the shouting mob to take up a stand before the khaki-clad man.
"I always knew you was a mean one, Cecil Stump," he said, unlimbering handcuffs, "ever since I seen you makin' up them ground-glass baits for Joe Potter's dog. But I never thought I'd see you turn to cold-blooded murder." He waved at the bystanders. "Clear a path through here; I'm takin' my prisoner over to the jail."
"Jest a dad-blamed minute, Sheriff." Stump's face was pale, his glasses were gone and one khaki shoulder strap dangled—but what was almost a grin twisted one meaty cheek. He hid his hands behind his back, leaned away from the cuffs. "I don't like that word 'prisoner'. I ast you fer pertection. And better look out who you go throwin' that word 'murder' off at, too. I ain't murdered nobody."
The sheriff blinked, turned to roar, "How's the victim, Doc?"
A small gray head rose from bending over the limp form of the Fianna. "Deader'n a mackerel, Sheriff."
"I guess that's it. Let's go, Cecil."
"What's the charge?"
"First degree murder."
"Who'd I murder?"
"Why, you killed this here ... this stranger."