"Next time will decide it," remarked Orde. "If the sheriff brings a
posse and sits down to lay for us, of course we won't be able to get
near to finish the job."
"I didn't think that of George Morris," commented Sims in an
aggrieved way. "He was a riverman himself once before he was
sheriff."
"He's got to obey orders, and serve a warrant when it's issued, of
course," replied Orde to this. "What did you expect?"
At the end of another hour, which brought the time to four o'clock,
the sheriff made his third appearance--this time in a side-bar
buggy.
"I wish I dared join that confab," said Orde, "and hear what's going
on, but I'm afraid he'd jug me sure."
"He wouldn't jug me," spoke up Newmark. "I'll go down."
"Bully for you!" agreed Orde.
The young man departed in his precise, methodical manner, picking
his way rather mincingly among the inequalities of the trail. In
spite of the worn and wrinkled condition of his garments, they
retained something of a city hang and smartness that sharply
differentiated their wearer from even the well-dressed citizens of a
smaller town. They seemed to match the refined, shrewd, but cold
intelligence of his lean and nervous face.
About sunset he returned from a scene which the distant spectators
had watched with breathless interest.
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