But Roderick Warfield had all the blind audacity of youth and did not give the old westerner Jim Rankin the credit he deserved. Jim Rankin was versed in the ways of these western transgressors, and knew the price he and Roderick would have to pay for “butting in” on a quarrel between the cattle and the sheep men that was no direct concern of outsiders. This price was death, swift and merciless.
When Roderick reached the highway he pulled his horse to the right toward the bridge that spanned Jack Creek. As he approached the bridge he heard someone say: “Here he comes now.” The voice was not Jim Rankin’s.
“Hello,” came a call in yet another voice, just as his horse reached the bridge.
“Come on, Roderick,” cried Jim Rankin, “I’m here.”
“Who’s with you?” inquired Roderick.
“They’ll tell you,” replied Jim.
Roderick rode up and found three men with drawn revolvers, and one of them proved to be the sheriff of the county and the others his deputies.
“Gentlemen,” said the sheriff, “you are accused of killing a lot of sheep up here on Jack Creek and burning a couple of wagons, and I arrest you in the name of the law.”
“What does this mean?” inquired Roderick, hotly.
“It means,” said the sheriff, “you fellers will fork over your shootin’ irons quietly and submit to being handcuffed.”