But Blackstock was too quick for them. The swiftest sprinter in the county, he got to the other party ahead of the mob and whipped around to face them, with one hand on the big revolver at his hip and Jim showing his teeth beside him. The constable and his party, hugely astonished, but confident that Blackstock’s side was the right one to be on, closed protectingly around the prisoner, whose eyes now almost bulged from his head.
“You keep right back, boys,” commanded the Deputy in a voice of steel. “The law will look after this here prisoner, if he’s the guilty one.”
“Fur as we kin see, there ain’t no ‘if’ about it,” shouted Hawker, almost frothing at the mouth. “That’s the man as done it, an’ we’re agoin’ to string ’im up fer it right now, for fear he might git off some way atween the jedges an’ the lawyers. You keep out of it now, Tug.”
About half the crowd surged forward with Hawker in front. Up came Blackstock’s gun.
“Ye know me, boys,” said he. “Keep back.”
They kept back. They all fell back, indeed, some paces, except Hawker, who held his ground, half crouching, his lips distorted in a snarl of rage.
“Aw now, quit it, Sam,” urged one of his followers. “’Tain’t worth it. An’ Tug’s right, anyways. The law’s good enough, with Tug to the back of it.” And putting forth a long arm he dragged Hawker back into the crowd.
“Put away yer gun, Tug,” expostulated another. “Seein’s ye feel that way about it, we won’t interfere.”
Blackstock stuck the revolver back into his belt with a grin.
“Glad ye’ve come back to yer senses, boys,” said he, perceiving that the crisis was over. “But keep an eye on Hawker for a bit yet. Seems to ’ave gone clean off his head.”