“Gene Stewart,” he replied, curtly.
“On what charge?”
“Fer killin’ a Greaser one night last fall.”
“So you’re still harpin’ on that? Pat, you’re on the wrong trail. You can’t lay that killin’ onto Stewart. The thing’s ancient by now. But if you insist on bringin’ him to court, let the arrest go to-day—we’re hevin’ some fiesta hyar—an’ I’ll fetch Gene in to El Cajon.”
“Nope. I reckon I’ll take him when I got the chance, before he slopes.”
“I’m givin’ you my word,” thundered Stillwell.
“I reckon I don’t hev to take your word, Bill, or anybody else’s.”
Stillwell’s great bulk quivered with his rage, yet he made a successful effort to control it.
“See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what’s reasonable. Law is law. But in this country there always has been an’ is now a safe an’ sane way to proceed with the law. Mebbe you’ve forgot that. The law as invested in one man in a wild country is liable, owin’ to that man’s weaknesses an’ onlimited authority, to be disputed even by a decent ole cattleman like myself. I’m a-goin’ to give you a hunch. Pat, you’re not overliked in these parts. You’ve rid too much with a high hand. Some of your deals hev been shady, an’ don’t you overlook what I’m sayin’. But you’re the sheriff, an’ I’m respectin’ your office. I’m respectin’ it this much. If the milk of human decency is so soured in your breast that you can’t hev a kind feelin’, then try to avoid the onpleasantness that’ll result from any contrary move on your part to-day. Do you get that hunch?”
“Stillwell, you’re threatenin’ an officer,” replied Hawe, angrily.