Through this group pushed the man with the ten-gallon can. Close behind now followed the gaunt Irish setter. It happened quickly, like one of those mountain tragedies that brood over such places, remnants of feuds that hang on to the skirts of civilization. Two muffled pistol shots broke the peace and security of the village and brought men running to the garage. For the man with the ten-gallon can had turned at last, and Frank had sprung straight at his throat.
From the confusion of crowding men came the hoarse shout,
"Turn me loose! Let me kill that dog! Can't you see? He's mad as hell!"
"I've got the dog all right!" cried the big man in the broad-brimmed hat. "If he's mad I'll 'tend to him!"
Plunging, barking, begging to be turned loose, old Frank was dragged backward across the cement floor. In the door of a glass-enclosed office the big man, holding tight to his collar, turned.
"Here—you—Sam!" he panted. "Run to the hotel. Tell Mr. Earle—the gentleman that just came with his wife—we got a man down here and a red Irish setter. Quick! Catch him before he leaves!"
Then they were in the office, and the door was shut. The big man had sunk breathless into a chair still holding to the dog's collar. He was quiet now. But the blood that dripped slowly on the floor was no redder than his eyes. The door opened and he plunged forward. But it was a stranger—a young man with a star on his coat.
"Sam got 'em, Sheriff," he said, "they're comin' now. Must I bring the man in here?"
"No. Keep him out there. This fellow's still seein' red."