"Which is eminent and proper, Wilfred. I belongs to the past--I'M a kind of wild creature such as has to die out when civilization rolls high; and she's rolling high in these parts, and it's for me and Bill to join the Indians and buffaloes, and fade away. Trappers is out of date; so is highwaymen, I judge. "I don't know as I makes myself clear or well put, but if you'll catch up the ponies I guess your sheriff can handle my meaning." Without much difficulty, Wilfred effected another compromise. They waited till night before leaving the retreat. The reason accepted for this delay was that in the daytime the deputies would stop them and Willock wanted to give himself up to the chief in command. When it was dark they slipped down the gully whose matted trees, though stripped of leaves, offered additional shelter. In the cove, they saw the light streaming from the window of the dugout--that famous window that had given Lahoma her first outlook upon learning. As the beams caught his eye, a sigh heaved the great bulk of the former master of the cove, but he said nothing. In oppressive silence they skirted Turtle Hill and emerged from the horseshoe bend, finding in a sheltered nook the three ponies that Wilfred had provided at nightfall. He had hoped to the last that Willock could be prevailed on to alter his decision, and even while riding away toward Mangum, he argued and coaxed. But it was in vain, and as they clattered up to the hotel veranda, Willock was searching the crowd for a glimpse of the sheriff. The street was unusually full for that time of night; some topic of engrossing interest seemed to engage all minds until Willock's figure was recognized; then, indeed, he held the center of attention. Men gathered eagerly, curiously, but without the hostility they would have displayed had not a message regarding Red Feather reached the town. Brick was still an outlaw, to be sure, but whatever crimes he had committed were unknown, hence unable to react on the imagination. The surviving friend of Red Kimball, giving up his efforts against Willock on the liberation of Bill, had left the country, harmless without his leader. Conversation which had been loud and excited, eager calls from street corners that had punctuated the many-tongued argument and exposition, dimmed to silence. There was a forward movement of the men, not a rush but a vibratory swell of the human tide, pushing toward the steps of the hotel. The two riderless horses danced sidewise--Brick Willock had jumped upon the unpainted floor of the veranda, and Wilfred had sprung lightly to his side. "I'll just keep on my horse," muttered Bill, resting one leg stiffly over the pommel. "I can't get up as I used to, and I expect to stay with ye, Brick, to the jail door."