Before this task was finished, Billy Keating came in, bringing the twenty-five dollars which Edstrom had got from the post-office. They found a notary public, before whom Hal made oath to each document; and when these had been duly inscribed and stamped with the seal of the state, he gave carbon copies to Keating, who hurried off to catch a mail-train which was just due. Billy would not trust such things to the local post-office; for Pedro was the hell of a town, he declared. As they went out on the street again they noticed that their body-guard had been increased by another husky-looking personage, who made no attempt to conceal what he was doing.
Hal went around the corner to an office bearing the legend, “J.W. Anderson, Justice of the Peace.”
Jim Anderson, the horse-doctor, sat at his desk within. He had evidently chewed tobacco before he assumed the ermine, and his reddish-coloured moustache still showed the stains. Hal observed such details, trying to weigh his chances of success. He presented the affidavit describing his treatment in North Valley, and sat waiting while His Honour read it through with painful slowness.
“Well,” said the man, at last, “what do you want?”
“I want a warrant for Jeff Cotton's arrest.”
The other studied him for a minute. “No, young fellow,” said he. “You can't get no such warrant here.”
“Why not?”
“Because Cotton's a deputy-sheriff; he had a right to arrest you.”
“To arrest me without a warrant?”
“How do you know he didn't have a warrant?”