"Well?" he said finally.
"This man here's a deputy marshal, John," Watts said. "We'll take your prisoner and that body now, if you don't mind."
The stout man grinned placatingly. "That's right, Mr. McCullough, I've deputized Mr. Watts here and several others to help restore order. We've rounded up all the rioters except that one you've got in there."
"You got a warrant?" McCullough asked.
"Well, no, I don't really think—"
"Then get off my property. Go on, get!" McCullough came down the steps and began to walk slowly toward Watts and the marshal. "Get out of my yard!" he said. He did not raise his voice.
"You're bucking the law now, John McCullough," Watts warned.
"Get out of my yard!" McCullough said again. He was about three steps away from Watts. He took another step.
Watts had been carrying a pistol in his hand. His arm started to swing up. McCullough let out a wordless bark: "Haugh!" and the axe flipped in a short swift arc. He stepped over Watts' body, the axe again dangling limply from his hand with a few thin threads of blood spattering from it. "Get out of my yard!" he said.
The nearer men backed away slowly, not really frightened, but uncertain. Single men have faced down mobs many times, but more have been killed by them. In a saner moment, McCullough may have known this, but his ductless glands were in full control now. He did not really care, he rather hoped, if he thought at all, that there would be a fight. He knew he could kill any man who stood against him.