“Oh, look out, Mother!” wailed Father, rushing after her, his own hands going down to his sides in his agitation.
“Look out, aunty!” echoed Crook McKusick. “That’s a bad actor, that guy.”
But Mother continued straight at the gun, snapping: “Don’t point that dratted thing at me. You bother me.”
The sheriff wavered. The gun dropped. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Never you mind who I am, young man. I’m responsible for these boys, though. And they promised me they wouldn’t do no more stealing. They’re going to work for what they get. And they got a right here on this land. They got permission. That’s more than you got, I venture, with your nasty guns and all, coming around here— Have you got a warrant?”
“No, I ain’t, but you—”
“Then you just step yourself away, young man! Coming here, fairly shaking a body’s nerves. I vow, you almost scare me, carrying on— Put down that dratted gun, I told you. You’ll either go, Mr. Deputy Monkey, or I’ll see your boss, and we’ll see what we’ll see.”
With which Mother—who was rapidly becoming almost impolite in her indignation over this uninvited visit from a person whom she couldn’t find it in her heart to like—seized the muzzle of the gun, pushed it down, and stood glowering at the sheriff, her arms akimbo.
“Well, ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but if you got any idee that this bunch of cut-throats is likely to turn into any W. C. T. U. pink-tea party—”
“Now none of your nonsense and impudence and sneering, young man, and be off with you, or I’ll see somebody that’ll have something to say to you. Illegal goings-on, that’s what they are; no warrant or nothing.”