But Dailey had never a word left. His blunders had been crying ones, and his chief’s menacing look had warned him what to expect. The courage oozed out of his heart, for he counted himself already a dead man.
“And who are you, my friend, that make so free with Wolf Leroy’s name?” It was odd how every word of the drawling sentence contrived to carry a taunt and a threat with it, strange what a deadly menace the glittering eyes shot forth.
“My name is Collins.”
“Sheriff of Pica County?”
“Yes.”
The eyes of the men met like rapiers, as steady and as searching as cold steel. Each of them was appraising the rare quality of his opponent in this duel to the death that was before him.
“What are you doing here? Ain’t Pica County your range?”
“I’ve been discussing with your friend the late hold-up on the Transcontinental Pacific.”
“Ah!” Leroy knew that the sheriff was serving notice on them of his purpose to run down the bandits. Swiftly his mind swept up the factors of the situation. Should he draw now and chance the result, or wait for a more certain ending? He decided to wait, moved by the consideration that even if he were victorious the lawyers were sure to draw out of the fat-brained Scotty the cause of the quarrel.
“Well, that don’t interest me any, though I suppose you have to explain a heap how come they to hold you up and take your gun. I’ll leave you and your jelly-fish Scotty to your gabfest. Then you better run back home to Tucson. We don’t go much on visiting sheriffs here.” He turned on his heel with an insolent laugh, and left the sheriff alone with Dailey.