“It certainly looks shaky,” Carson admitted, as they moved on to the store, where Blackburn stood waiting for them just inside the doorway.
“How did Pete pass the night?” Carson asked, his brow still clouded by the discouraging observations of his partner.
“Oh, all right,” Blackburn made reply. “Bob and Wade slept here on the counters. They say he snored like a saw-mill. They could hear him through the floor. Boys, I hate to dash cold water in your faces, but I never felt as shaky in my life.”
“What's the matter with you?” Garner asked, with an uneasy laugh.
“I'm afraid a storm is rising in an unexpected quarter,” said the store-keeper, furtively glancing up and down the street, and then leading them farther back into the store.
“Which quarter is that?” Carson asked, anxiously.
“The sheriff is acting odd—mighty odd,” said Blackburn.
“Good Lord! you don't think Braider's really on our trail do you?” Garner cried, in genuine alarm.
“Well, you two can make out what it means yourselves,” and Blackburn pulled at his short chin whiskers doggedly. “It was only about half an hour ago—Braider's drinking some, and was, perhaps, on that account a little more communicative—he came in here, his face as red as a pickled beet, and smelling like a bunghole in a whiskey-barrel, and leaned against the counter on the dry-goods side.
“'I'm the legally elected sheriff of this county, ain't I?' he said, in his maudlin way, and I told him he was by a big majority.