“W. R. Johnson was killed in the night. You’re wanted, Jack,” the young man answered.
“Killed, was he? Well, he had it comin’,” jeered the gunman. “You’ve heard about the pitcher that went once too often to the well, I reckon.”
“We’ve heard about that pitcher, Jack. Have you?” asked Hugh significantly.
Daily tried to carry things off with a swagger. “Been elected sheriff overnight, young fellow, in place of Francis?”
“Just a deputy. Drop that gun.”
The desperado hesitated. Then, with a forced laugh, he tossed his revolver upon the bed. “You’re feelin’ yore oats since Dutch showed a yellow streak, McClintock.”
Buckley had escaped and the sheriff sent a posse after him. Two or three men on the list were in hiding and could not at once be found, but the gather in the net of the vigilantes was a large one. Later in the day Buckley was brought to town. He had been found skulking in a prospect hole.
There was a disposition at first on the part of some to let the machinery of the law take its course rather than try the prisoners before a people’s court. The leaders of the movement yielded to this sentiment so far as to allow a preliminary hearing in the office of Justice Moore.
At this hearing Vance, one of the gang whose name somehow had not been included on the list, had the hardihood to appear. He blustered and bullied, though he was warned to remain silent. Presently, just as he was reaching for a revolver, one of the citizens’ posse wounded him in the arm.
Captain Palmer, on behalf of the vigilantes, at once brushed aside the formalities of the law and organized a people’s court. He did not intend to let the guilty men intimidate the court that was to try them, nor to permit them to escape by means of technicalities.