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Gieger might have averted the threatening clash with a judicious use of soft, placating speech. But it pleased him to bluster. "We are deputies, acting under orders from the court. We are after a murderer, and we mean to get him!" he said, coldly. "Deputies! Hell!" Barkwell's voice rose, sharply scornful and mocking. "Deputies! Crooks! Gun-fighters! Pluguglies!"
An' the bank? An' killed Braman? Well, you got to admit that's a pretty good night's work. An' you're wantin' him!" Barkwell's voice leaped; he spoke in short, snappy, metallic sentences that betrayed passion long restrained, breaking his self-control. "You're deputies, eh? Corrigan's whelps! Sneaks! Coyotes! Well, you slope you hear? When I count three, I down you! One! Two! Three!"
Rosalind was not in the best of spirits, herself, for during the ride to the ranchhouse she had been sending subtly-questioning shafts at the foreman questions that mostly concerned Trevison and they had all fell, blunted and impotent, from the armor of Barkwell's reticence. But a glance at Trevison's face, ludicrous in its expression of stunned amazement, brought a broad smile to her own.
"Who are you?" He urged his horse forward. But he was brought to a quick halt when Barkwell's voice came again: "Talk from where you are!" "That goes," laughed the man. "Trevison here?" "What you wantin' of him?" "Plenty. We're deputies. Trevison burned the courthouse and the bank tonight and killed Braman. We're after him." "Well, he ain't here." Barkwell laughed. "Burned the courthouse, did he?
They grew louder, drumming over the hard sand of the plains, and presently four dark figures loomed out of the night and came plunging toward the gallery. They came to a halt at the gallery edge, and were about to dismount when Barkwell's voice, cold and truculent, issued from the shadow of the trees: "What's eatin' you guys?" There was a short, pregnant silence, and then one of the men laughed.
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