“His warrant goes in Piodie,” someone shouted.
“Sure does,” echoed another voice.
“Not on yore tintype,” retorted the sheriff. “Ormsby County don’t run our affairs. Not none.”
The Maine lumberjack lined up beside Hugh, an axe shaft in his hand. He had observed that Dodson and Sloan were gathering the camp toughs for a rescue.
“His warrant’s good with me—good as the wheat,” the big woodsman said. “He made it good, boys, when he stood up to that hose nozzle down below and stuck there while he baked. He made it good again when he went in to the crosscut where our friends were trapped.”
Sloan and his crowd moved forward. One of them spoke to the sheriff. “If you want to swear in some deputies to enforce the law, Dick, why, we’re right here handy.”
From out of the crowd a girl darted, light as a deer. She stood directly in front of Hugh, face to face with the gunmen of the camp. A warm colour breathed in her cheeks. Her dark eyes flashed with indignation.
“Don’t you touch him. Don’t you dare touch him,” she cried. “It was my brother this—this villain killed. He did shoot him from behind. I’ve had a letter. It was murder.”
A murmur of resentment passed like a wave through the crowd. They knew the slim young school teacher told the truth.
“Don’t I know?” she went on ardently, beautiful in her young unconsciousness of self as a flaming flower. “Wasn’t I there when he tried to kill Hugh here—and Hugh frozen from the blizzard so that he couldn’t lift a hand to help himself? Oh, he’s—he’s a terrible man.”