It was the command of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.
Tad, watching Kipp closely, saw the sheriff’s mouth tighten so as to leave the lips a bloodless, crooked line. For a long moment the officer and the cow man held each other’s gaze.
“Fox,” said Kipp, measuring his words with deliberate slowness, “I’m sheriff here. This jail is county property. I leave here when I get —— ready. If yo’re aimin’ tuh smell powder smoke, go fer yore gun.”
Fox’s upper lip lifted, revealing long, crooked, yellow teeth. They made the man hideous. His long fingers patted the butt of an ivory-handled .45 that swung in a tied holster, low down on his thigh.
“Whenever I pull my gun, Kipp, this county will be in line for a new sheriff. However, it’s bad luck to kill an officer of the law. Our quarrel will keep without spoilin’. I’ll word my wishes differently. I’d like a few minutes pow-wow with your prisoners, Sheriff Kipp. Will you be so kind as to grant so great a favor?”
His long frame bent at the waistline in a mocking bow. Rumor had it that Luther Fox, in his youth, had been a New England schoolmaster. Like rust corroding a steel blade, frontier contact had well nigh obliterated the polish that belonged to that former life. Occasionally it was visible, usually in the form of sarcasm.
Kipp, with a visible effort, fought down the hot rage that surged up inside him. He turned on his heel and walked to the door. Without a backward glance he closed the door behind him.
Inside the jail, Tad and Shorty looked up with curious gaze at Fox and waited for him to break the silence that followed Kipp’s departure. Fox’s lips were again twitching at the corners. Otherwise, his expression did not change.