Hugh spoke, his voice cold and hard. “I’m not on the shoot to-day, Dodson—unless you force my hand, you black-hearted murderer. I’m here to take Dutch back to Carson with me. The yellow wolf shot my brother in the back.” “No such thing. I got him in a fair fight,” blustered Dutch. “An’ I ain’t goin’ to Carson with you, either.” “You’re going, _dead or alive_.” McClintock’s face and voice were as inexorable as the day of judgment. “He’s aimin’ to take me there to be killed,” Dutch cried out. “You boys won’t stand for that.” He named two or three of the men with whom he consorted, picking them out of the crowd. “Sure we won’t.” A gunman stepped forward briskly. “You can’t pull that over here, McClintock. You don’t own this camp, an’ you can’t play chief here.” Two men lined up with Hugh, one on each side of him. The man on his right was a whale of a fat man. Deftly he slid McClintock’s revolver from its holster. The second ally was a small wiry fellow. From a grimy blackened face keen eyes peered intently. The fat man spoke. “Don’t run on the rope, Sloan. We’re with the kid on this. He’s a deputy sheriff, an’ it’ll sure be ‘Let’s gather at the river’ for some of you anxious gents if you overplay yore hand.” Sloan hesitated. He could not very well look round to see whether the gang of which he was one were present in numbers, and, if so, whether they would support him. He knew these three men of old. They belonged to the pony express outfit, as hard-riding and fast shooting a group of men as the West has known. It was certain that Dutch could not be rescued without a fight, and Sloan was hardly in a position to call for a showdown. He was game enough. With McClintock alone he would have taken a chance. But the three of them were too many for him. The sheriff of the county saved his face. He bustled forward. “Tut, tut! What’s all this?” he asked fussily. “There’s good law in this town, lots of it. No need of gun plays. If Mr. Dutch is wanted, there’s a right an’ proper way to get him, but that way ain’t at the point of a gun.” “McClintock’s a deputy sheriff,” put in Budd. There was rivalry between him and the sheriff. Budd was a candidate for the party nomination at the coming primaries. The wise politicians admitted that even with the Dodsons against him the fat man had a chance. “You’d oughta know better’n that, Budd, an’ you a candidate for sheriff,” the officer reproved. “Say he is a deputy. He can’t go cavortin’ round all over Nevada, California, and Utah arrestin’ any one he’s a mind to. Where’s his warrant? Whyn’t he come to me with it like a reasonable man would—that is, if he’s got one.” With his left hand Hugh felt in his pocket and produced a warrant. He handed it to the sheriff. That gentleman ran his eye over it. He returned it. “Good only in Ormsby County,” he snapped. “What arrestin’ is done here I do—leastways, at present,” he added with a sarcastic grin at Budd.