“The churge o’ killin’ Henry Peintdexter—yur own cousin.”
“It’s a lie! A damned slanderous lie; and whoever says it—!”
“Shet up yur head!” cries Zeb, with an authoritative gesture. “Ye’re only wastin’ breath. Ef this chile ain’t mistook about it, ye’ll need all ye’ve got afore long. Kum, now! make riddy to reeturn wi’ us! The judge air awaitin’; the jury air awaitin’; an justice air waitin’, too—in the shape o’ three score Reg’lators.”
“I’m not going back,” doggedly responds Calhoun. “By what authority do you command me? You have no warrant?”
“Hain’t I, though?” interrupts Zeb. “What d’ye call this?” he adds, pointing to his rifle. “Thur’s my warrant, by the grace o’ God; an by thet same, this chile air a goin’ to execute it. So no more o’ yur durned palaver: for I ain’t the sort to stan’ it. Take yur choice, Mister Cash Calhoun. Mount thet old maar o’ mine, an kum along quickly; or try the toother dodge, an git toated like a packidge o’ merchandice: for back yur boun’ to go—I swar it by the Eturnal!”
Calhoun makes no reply. He glances at Stump—at Gerald—despairingly around him; then stealthily towards a six-shooter, protruding from the breast-pocket of his coat—the counterpart of that shaken out of his hand, as the rope settled around him.
He makes an effort to reach the pistol—feeble, because only half resolved.
He is restrained by the lazo; perhaps more by a movement on the part of Zeb; who, with a significant gesture, brings his long gun to the level.
“Quick!” exclaims the hunter. “Mount, Mister Calhoun! Thur’s the maar awaitin’ for ye. Inter the seddle, I say!”
Like a puppet worked by the wires of the showman, the ex-captain of cavalry yields compliance with the commands of the backwoodsman. He does so, from a consciousness that there is death—certain death—in disobeying them.