The sheriff merely scowled.
"It ain't clear to me yet," he declared, "how you and me get together on any topic we got in common. Looks sort of like we was just hearing one old yarn over and over agin."
"My dear sir," smiled Waters, "you have not allowed me to come to the crux of my story. Which is: that you and I have one great object in common—to dispose of this Terry Hollis, for I take it for granted that if you were to get rid of him the people who criticize now would do nothing but cheer you. Am I right?"
"If I could get him," sighed the sheriff. "Mr. Waters, gimme time and I'll get him, right enough. But the trouble with the gents around these parts is that they been spoiled. I cleaned up all the bad ones so damn quick that they think I can do the same with every crook that comes along. But this Hollis is a slick one, I tell you. He covers his tracks. Laughs in my face, and admits what he done, when he talks to me, like he done the other day. But as far as evidence goes, I ain't got anything on him—yet. But I'll get it!"
"And in the meantime," said Waters brutally, "they say that you're getting old."
The sheriff became a brilliant purple.
"Do they say that?" he muttered. "That's gratitude for you, Mr. Waters! After what I've done for 'em—they say I'm getting old just because I can't get anything on this slippery kid right off!"
He changed from purple to gray. To fail now and lose his position meant a ruined life. And Waters knew what was in his mind.
"But if you got Terry Hollis, they'd be stronger behind you than ever."
"Ah, wouldn't they, though? Tell me what a great gent I was quick as a flash."