“Then somebody knocked the pistol down an' Paul went on talkin'. One by one the crowd got ashamed and sluffed off, an' presently just me an' Paul an' Henry an' one or two more was left. We took Henry to the hotel an' got a room for 'im, an' made 'im go to bed.”
Trawley ceased speaking. Hoag stood with downcast eyes. He had nothing to say.
“Mark my word,” Trawley added, confidently, “the day o' mobs hereabouts is over. This was the straw that breaks the camel's back. The old klan is down an' out, an' Paul Rundel will settle the young gang. They respect 'im. They can't help it, an' he told me he was goin' to make it his chief aim to crush it out.”
Hoag remained silent and Trawley went to a stall in the rear and brought his horse forward.
“You ain't goin' in to see Henry 'fore you go out, are you?” he asked, as he released the bridle-reins.
“Not to-night,” was the reply. “He may be 'asleep. I'll—I'll see 'im, I reckon, to-morrow.”
Hoag thrust a clumsy foot into the wooden stirrup, and bent his knees as if to mount, but failed. There was a block near by, and he led his horse to it, and from the block finally got into the saddle.
“Good night,” he said, and he rode away. At the street-corner he took out his revolver and, holding it in one hand, he urged his horse into a gallop. From every fence-corner or dark clump of bushes on the roadside he expected to see armed men arise and confront him.