Wheeler stepped back, his face crimson with anger, but saying nothing.
Joe did not get up, nor did he even look at Wheeler, who stepped past McLaren and went slowly up the street.
“Are ye hurt much, Joe?” asked McLaren not unkindly. He knew all about what had happened the night before.
Joe did not reply. He got slowly to his feet and leaned against the building, while he drew out the folded sheet of paper. Then he unpinned the silver star from the bosom of his soiled shirt, pinned it to the sheet of paper and handed it to McLaren. Then he turned and went slowly down the street.
McLaren stared after him. Joe Rich staggered slightly, but he was not drunk. McLaren unfolded the paper and read it carefully. It was Joe’s resignation, written to the board of county commissioners. McLaren put it in his pocket.
“Life’s queer,” said the big Scot thoughtfully. “Yesterday he was Joe Rich, sheriff of Tumblin’ River, the luckiest young man in the world. And today—nobody! Ye never know yer luck, so ye don’t; and who has the right to judge him?”
He turned and went back to his office.
Joe staggered off the main street and went down through an alley. He wanted to get off the street; to be where no one would talk to him. Strangely enough he felt no pain from the blow. Except for the fact that his face was bleeding, he was not aware he had been hurt.
The thought of Jim Wheeler knocking him down hurt worse than any blow, and he moved along blindly; not going anywhere—just away from everybody. He did not realize where he was until he heard a voice speak his name.
He was standing beside a picket-fence, and there was Honey Bee, holding the reins of his horse. The picket-fence was the one around Joe’s house; the one Aunt Emma had called “Honeymoon Home.”