A moment later the
bar-room was deserted and out in the street the night air resounded
with the sound of snorting, trampling horses, the metallic jangle of
spurs and bit chains, the creak of saddle-leather, and the terse,
quick-worded observations of men mounting in the midst of the confusion
of refractory horses.
"The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore!" roared a cowboy as he slammed
into the saddle of a skew-ball black.
"Go git him!" howled another in exact imitation of Slim Maloney.
There was a thunder of hoofs as the whole crowd, headed by Tex and
Curly swept down the street and across the flat toward the impromptu
jail.
With a lighted lantern beside him, Sam Moore sat upon the strongly
built unloading platform before the warehouse door, access to which was
gained by means of a flight of six or eight plank steps at either end.
Up these steps rode a couple of cowpunchers while the rest drew up
sharply at the very edge of the platform. Hemmed in upon all sides the
valiant deputy glanced fearfully into the faces of the horsemen.
"Wha--What's up, boys? What's ailin' ye?" he managed to blurt out.
"Drop them guns an' give over the key!" commanded someone.
"Sure--sure, boys! I hain't aimin' to hurt no one. Yer all friends of
mine an' what you say goes with me."
"Friends of yourn!" roared someone menacingly; "you're a liar, Sam!
You ain't never seen nary one of us before! Git that!"
"Sure, sure thing, boys, I don't know who ye be.
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