"Hey, Bonbright!" vociferated a man leaping up from the last step where he had been sitting, pointing to where the marshal's deputy followed behind herding five or six prisoners from the mountains, "Hey, Bonbright! There's some of your constituency--some God-fearing Turkey-Trackers--now, but I reckon you won't own 'em." "I will!" shouted Bonbright, whirling upon him, and one got suddenly the blue fire of his hawk-like eye with the slant brow above. "They _are_ my people, and the way they're treated is what I've been trying to talk to you-all about." "Well, you better go and take them fellers some law right now," jeered his interlocutor. "Looks like to me they need it mighty bad." "That's just what I'm about," answered Bonbright. "God knows they'll get no justice unless I do. That's my job," and without another word or a look behind him he made his way bareheaded through the group on the steps and down the street. Meantime the pursued had turned desperately and dodged into the millinery store whence Judith Barrier had emerged a little earlier. Instantly there came out to the listeners the noise of falling articles and breaking glass, and the squeals and scufflings of the women. The red-faced marshal dived in after his quarry, and emerged a moment later holding him by one elbow, swearing angrily. Creed Bonbright came up at the instant, and Haley, needing some one to whom he could express himself, explained in voluble anger: "The damned little shoat! Said if I'd let him walk a-loose he'd give me information. You can't trust none of them." Bonbright laid a reassuring touch on the fugitive's shoulder as Haley fumbled after the handcuffs. "I ain't been into no stillin', Creed!" panted the squirming boy. "Well, don't run then," admonished Bonbright. "You've got no call to. I'll see that you get justice." While he spoke there wheeled into the square, from a nearby waggon-yard, two young mountaineers on mules, one leading by the bridle-rein a sorrel horse with a side-saddle on it. At sight of the marshal and those with him, an almost imperceptible tremor went through the pair. There was a flicker of nostril, a rounding of eye, as their glance ran swiftly from one to another of Haley's prisoners. They were like wild game that winds the hunter. "St! You Pony Card, is that them?" whispered Haley, sharply nudging the prisoner he held. "Turn him a-loose, Bonbright; I've got him handcuffed now." The boy--he was not more than sixteen--choked, reddened, held down his head, studying the marshal's face anxiously from beneath lowered flax-coloured brows. "Yes, them's Andy and Jeff Turrentine," Bonbright heard the husky, reluctant whisper. "Now cain't I go?"