While Hugh was still at the bedside of his brother he began to make arrangements for the thing he meant to do. Already he knew that Sam Dutch had left town. Word had come to him that two horsemen in a desperate hurry had clattered down the street from Doc Benton’s stable. They had disappeared in the darkness. But the man who had seen them go had not recognized the companion of Dutch. Nor could he tell whether the riders had turned off Carson Street into King’s Cañon road, had swung to the right along the foothills road, or had held to a straight course toward Reno.
The news of the outrage spread fast. Friends of the McClintocks poured into the Ormsby House by scores to see if there was anything they could do. Among them were the Governor, a Justice of the Supreme Court, half-a-dozen state senators and representatives, and the sheriff of the county.
It was characteristic of Hugh that even in the anguish he felt at seeing his brother stricken from lusty health by the bullets of assassins his mind worked with orderly precision. When he thought of the murderers a cold, deadly anger possessed him, but if possible he meant his vengeance to come within the law.
“There’s one thing you can do, Phil,” he said to the sheriff. “Swear me in as a special deputy. I’m goin’ out to get Dutch.”
“To bring him back here, you mean?” asked the officer.
McClintock’s eyes were inscrutable. “Of course.”
“Now, looky here, son, that’s our job,” the sheriff remonstrated. “I’m gonna git that fellow. He’s run on the rope too long. You stay right here with Scot.”
“No. I want Dutch. He’s mine. Hands off till I can leave Scot, Phil.”
The sheriff argued, but he could not move the grim-faced man from his purpose. At last he gave way with a shrug of his shoulders. A wilful man must have his way.
“All right, son, I’ll swear you in if you’ll promise to bring Dutch back to Carson providin’ you git him.”