“Look here, Mills,” said Rankin, resentfully, “you’re goin’ too dangnation far, by gunnies. I’ll be responsible for young Warfield, here. I’ll go his bail. Dangnation, don’t press me any furder or I’ll git peevish.”
“Well,” replied Sheriff Mills, hesitatingly, “who will be responsible for you?”
“Why, Gosh’lmighty, Mills, we’ve know’d each other fur twenty-five years. You go my security yourself or by the great horn spoon you’ll not kerry Rawlins precinct next election.”
“Watch that young feller,” instructed the sheriff to his deputies. “Ride over this way, Jim, where we can speak privately.”
A few moments later Rankin called out: “Come on, Roderick, let’s be goin’. It’s gettin’ late. Everything’s all right.” And together they headed their horses for Encampment and rode on in the darkness.
Jim Rankin presently said: “Well, by gunnies, Tom Sun has leastways got to hand it to us fur tryin’.”
Roderick made no immediate reply and they continued their way in silence.
At last Roderick spoke.
“You were mighty friendly with that white-livered, double-dealing cur, the sheriff—that’s what you called him a few hours ago.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t present with a gun in his hand,” replied Jim. “He sure ‘nuff had the drop on us.”