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Updated: June 16, 2025
The man waited for the horse's head to become still. Then he fired. "Thanks," said Westerfelt. He looked round at the crowd, wondering which of the men could be Toot Wambush. He had an idea that he had not yet spoken, and was not among those nearest to him. Through the open door he could see Washburn's lantern moving about in the stable. "Hurry up in thar," cried a tall figure.
Just then Luke Bradley ran up the sidewalk and out on the veranda near Westerfelt. He had a warning on his lips, but seeing the critical situation he said nothing. A white, tigerish look came into the face of Westerfelt. The cords of his neck tightened as he leaned slowly towards Wambush. He was about to spring. "Don't be a fool, John," cautioned Bradley. "Be ashamed o' yorese'f, Toot!
Wambush drew back and put his hand behind him. "Damn you! don't you touch me!" he threatened. The two men sprang at him like tigers and grasped his arms. Wambush struggled and kicked, but they held him. "Wait thar a minute," cried the leader; "he don't know when to let well enough alone. You white sperits out thar with the tar an' feathers come for'ard.
"Wait, then!" yielded the jailer. Westerfelt heard a door slam and chains clank and rattle on the wooden floor; a bolt was slid back, the front door opened, and the white drift parted to receive a dark form. "Whar's my hoss?" doggedly asked Toot Wambush. "Out thar hitched to the fence," answered the leader. "You-uns was a hell of a time comin'," retorted Wambush.
Her head was covered with her shawl, and her companion was very near her. "Never mind; we won't bother you," called out Sarah Wambush, who, with Nelson Baker, led the promenaders. "We're goin' down the walk; you needn't run off on our account."
The ring of men and horses opened for Wambush to pass out. He said nothing, and did not turn his head as he rode down the mountain into the mysterious haze that hung over the valley. "What do you say, boys?" proposed Jim Hunter to Longfield and Burks. "Let's ride down the road a piece with Westerfelt." "All right," both of them said. There was a general scramble of the band to get mounted.
"Let go that knife!" The sheriff spoke the last word almost in a scream, and he beat Wambush's knuckles so furiously that the knife fell to the ground. He then pinned Toot's legs to the earth with his knees, and held the knife up to a man in the crowd. "Keep it jest like it is fur evidence," he panted. "Don't shet it up or tetch the blade." Disarmed, Wambush seemed suddenly overcome with fear.
I would a-swore on the stand a week ago that she wus as big a fool about Wambush as a woman kin git to be, but now well, I reckon she's jest like the rest. Let the feller they keer fer git a black eye an' have bad luck, an' they'll sidle up to the fust good-lookin' cuss they come across.
One day Luke Bradley came in his buggy to drive him out to his house. "Marthy won't heer to a refusal," he said. "She's powerful' troubled. She 'lowed ef we'd 'a' made you stay with us you'd not 'a' been apt to 'a' met Wambush that day, an' 'a' been laid up like this. She's jest dyin' to git to cook things fer you an' doctor you up." "I'll go and stay a day, anyway," promised Westerfelt.
He had just been debating in his mind the possibility of his being, in consideration of his own mistakes, able to take the girl, in her new love, into his heart and hold her there forever, but if she loved Wambush, as, of course, she once did, might she not later love some other man or might she not even think remember Wambush? "Great God!"
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