Eleazer vouchsafed no reply.
In high dudgeon the two men plodded through the sand, its grit seeping into their shoes with every step.
It was not until they came within sight of the Homestead that the silence between them was broken.
"Wal, here we are!" Eleazer announced more genially.
"Yes—here—here we are!" his comrade panted. "S'pose we set down a minute an' ketch our breath. My soul an' body—what a tramp! There's blisters on both my heels. I can hardly rest 'em on the ground."
"You do look sorter winded."
"I'm worse'n winded. I'm near dead! It's this infernal collar. It's most sawed the head off me," groaned Elisha.
"I don't see how it could. Every mite of starch is out of it. It's limp as a pocket handkerchief."
"Mebbe. Still, for all that, it's sand-papered my skin down to the raw. Collars are the devil's own invention. Nobody oughter wear 'em. Nobody oughter be made to wear 'em," raged Elisha. "Had I known when I was made sheriff I'd got to wear a collar, I'd never have took the job—never. 'Twarn't fair play not to tell me. In fact, there was nothin' fair 'bout any of it. This arrestin', now! I warn't justly warned 'bout that."
"Mebbe not," Eleazer agreed. "Still, I don't see's there's anything to be done 'bout all that now. You're sheriff an' your duty lies straight ahead of you. You've got to do it. Come along."