“More of your high-handed proceedings,” he ground out. “Some day you’ll get jumped on good and proper for your meddlin’, and after that you’ll ’tend to your own business an’ let other folks’ business alone.”
“Some day,” said the scout, “but not to-day. Try and be a gentleman, Bloom. I reckon it’ll be hard for you, but, anyhow, make the effort.”
The sheriff was beside himself with anger; in fact, he was so wrought up that words failed him. He gurgled and glared. Old Nomad stood at the door surveying the sheriff with great satisfaction.
“Ther further we go on this hyar peacemakin’ tour, Buffler,” he remarked, “ther better I like et.”
“Bloom,” pursued the scout, “a little history has been made during the last few days, and one detail of it I am going to offer for your attention. A man by the name of Ace Hawkins was shot and killed by a fellow calling himself Red Steve.”
“You can’t tell me a thing I don’t know,” snorted the sheriff. “Ace Hawkins was a desperado—he deserved all he got, no matter who gave it to him.”
“Wrong, in two ways. Hawkins was not a desperado. He was a man who was doing his best to further the cause of right and justice. Error number one for you. Whether or not he deserved the fate that overtook him, however, need command little of our attention. It was not Red Steve’s place to hand out his destiny with the point of a six-shooter. What have you done to apprehend Red Steve?”
“Nothin’, and I won’t do anythin’.”
“Why not? Aren’t you sworn to look after the law in this county?”
“It ain’t part o’ my duty to take advice from you.”