Longstreth said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and that worthy nodded his great bushy head.
“Bo, you're discharged,” said Longstreth, bluntly. “Now the rest of you clear out of here.”
He absolutely ignored the ranger. That was his rebuff to Duane—his slap in the face to an interfering ranger service. If Longstreth was crooked he certainly had magnificent nerve. Duane almost decided he was above suspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative assurance—these to Duane's keen and practiced eyes were in significant contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slow paling of his olive skin. In that momentary lull Duane's scrutiny of Longstreth gathered an impression of the man's intense curiosity.
Then the prisoner, Snecker, with a cough that broke the spell of silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.
“Hold on!” called Duane. The call halted Snecker, as if it had been a bullet.
“Longstreth, I saw Snecker attack Laramie,” said Duane, his voice still ringing. “What has the court to say to that?”
“The court has this to say. West of the Pecos we'll not aid any ranger service. We don't want you out here. Fairdale doesn't need you.”
“That's a lie, Longstreth,” retorted Duane. “I've letters from Fairdale citizens all begging for ranger service.”
Longstreth turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for quick reply.
Floyd Lawson rushed in and up to the table. The blood showed black and thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollable outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should reasonably have had for anger. Longstreth shoved him back with a curse and a warning glare.