“And I’m Buffalo Bill, and a friend of Nate Dunbar. I’ve come to talk with him, and Mr. Jordan is with me.”
“You can’t talk with him to-night. That shot goes as it lays.”
Bloom, the sheriff, had a rifle in his hands. As he spoke he brought it to “port arms” and glared at the scout over the barrel.
“I’d rather not have any trouble with you, Bloom,” said the scout, the words clicking like the snap of a breechblock, “but you’re putting on the screws at a time when it’s unnecessary and useless. Why can’t we go in and talk with Nate?”
“Because I tell you you can’t,” ground out the sheriff.
The next moment the scout had made a move. It was a lightning-like move, and when the sheriff had caught his breath the scout was standing in front of him with the rifle. Nor was the rifle at “port arms;” its point was leveled at Bloom’s breast.
“That’s the way you stack up, is it?” asked the sheriff, in a tense voice.
“It is,” was the cool reply. “Maybe you’d like to lock me up with Dunbar? Think twice before you try. This is not a time to say ‘no’ to me, Bloom. Lead the way into the jail.”
The sheriff hesitated.
“On an occasion like this I’m not in the habit of repeating an order,” went on the scout significantly.