“We’ll foller him when he gits further on,” said one of the men in explanation.
“He’s got to do it,” said another. “Let him git a little ways ahead.”
The sheriff returned to his wagon and drove on. He seemed, however, to realize that he would not be obeyed and that safety lay in haste alone. His wagon was traveling fast. If only he could lose them or get a good start he might possibly get to Clayton and the strong county jail by morning. His followers, however, trailed him swiftly as might be, determined not to be left behind.
“He’s goin’ to Baldwin,” said one of the company of which Davies was a member.
“Where’s that?” asked Davies.
“Over west o’ here, about four miles.”
“Why is he going there?”
“That’s where he lives. I guess he thinks if he kin git ’im over there he kin purtect ’im till he kin git more help from Clayton. I cal’late he’ll try an’ take ’im over yet to-night, or early in the mornin’ shore.”
Davies smiled at the man’s English. This countryside lingo always fascinated him.
Yet the men lagged, hesitating as to what to do. They did not want to lose sight of Matthews, and yet cowardice controlled them. They did not want to get into direct altercation with the law. It wasn’t their place to hang the man, although plainly they felt that he ought to be hanged, and that it would be a stirring and exciting thing if he were. Consequently they desired to watch and be on hand—to get old Whitaker and his son Jake, if they could, who were out looking elsewhere. They wanted to see what the father and brother would do.