"I'd like a li'l information my own self," grumbled Luke Tweezy. "When are you gonna make the Dales vacate?"
"All in good time," the Judge replied with a wintry smile. "I'll be getting to that in short order. Here comes Kansas and Jake Rule now."
"What you want with the sheriff?" Luke queried, uneasily.
"He's gonna help us in our li'l talk," explained the Judge, smoothly.
"I think I'll get my gun," observed Jack Harpe.
He made as if to rise but sank back immediately for Racey Dawson had suddenly appeared in the open doorway behind him and run the chill muzzle of a sixshooter into the back of his neck.
"Never sit with yore back to a doorway," advised Racey Dawson. "If you'll clamp yore hands behind yore head, Jack, we'll all be the happier. Luke, fish out the knife you wear under yore left armpit, lay it on the floor and kick it into the corner."
Luke Tweezy's knife tinkled against the wall at the moment that the sheriff, his deputy, and two other men entered from the street. The third man was Mr. Johnson, the Wells Fargo detective. The fourth man wore his left arm in a sling and hobbled on a cane. The fourth man was Swing Tunstall.
"What kind of hell's trick is this?" demanded Jack Harpe, glaring at the Wells Fargo detective.
"It's the last trick, Bill," said Mr. Johnson.