Early that morning, Mockaby, the town-sergeant, had
stepped into the street freshly shaven, with polished boots, and
in his best clothes for the eyes of his sweetheart, who was to
come up that day to the Gap from Lee. Before sunset he died with
those boots on, while the sweetheart, unknowing, was bound on her
happy way homeward, and Rufe Tolliver, who had shot Mockaby, was
clattering through the Gap in flight for Lonesome Cove.
As far as anybody knew, there had been but one Tolliver and one
Falin in town that day, though many had noticed the tall Western-
looking stranger who, early in the afternoon, had ridden across
the bridge over the North Fork, but he was quiet and well-behaved,
he merged into the crowd and through the rest of the afternoon was
in no way conspicuous, even when the one Tolliver and the one
Falin got into a fight in front of the speaker's stand and the
riot started which came near ending in a bloody battle. The Falin
was clearly blameless and was let go at once. This angered the
many friends of the Tolliver, and when he was arrested there was
an attempt at rescue, and the Tolliver was dragged to the
calaboose behind a slowly retiring line of policemen, who were
jabbing the rescuers back with the muzzles of cocked Winchesters.
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