"What is it, Colonel?" he asked anxiously, joining him.
For answer Milton Caukins held out the telegram. It was from the State authorities; its purport that the Colonel was to form a posse and be prepared to aid, to the extent of his powers, the New York detectives who were coming on the early evening train. The fugitive from justice had left New York and been traced to Hallsport.
"I've had a premonition of this—it's the last stroke, Tave—here, in his home—among us—and his mother!—and, in duty bound, I, of all others, must be the man to finish the ugly job—"
Octavius Buzzby's face worked strangely. "It's tough for you, Colonel, but I guess a Maine man knows his whole duty—only, for God's sake, don't ask me!" It was a groan rather than an ejaculation. The two continued to talk in a low tone.
"I shall call for volunteers and then get them sworn in—it means stiff work for to-night. We'll keep this from Aurora, Tave; she mustn't know this."
"Yes, if we can. Are you going to ask any of our own folks to volunteer, Milton?" In times of great stress and sorrow his townspeople called the Colonel by his Christian name.
"No; I'm going to ask some of the men who don't know him well—some of the foreigners; Poggi's one. He'll know some others up in The Gore. And I don't believe, Tave, there's one of our own would volunteer, do you?"
"No, I don't. We can't go that far; it would be like cutting our own throats."
"You're right, Tave—that's the way I feel; but"—he squared his shoulders—"it's got to be done and the sooner it's over the better for us all—but, Tave, I hope to God he'll keep out of our way!"
"Amen," said Octavius Buzzby.