It was just when it was all over, and the Tolliver was safely
jailed, that Bad Rufe galloped up to the calaboose, shaking with
rage, for he had just learned that the prisoner was a Tolliver. He
saw how useless interference was, but he swung from his horse,
threw the reins over its head after the Western fashion and strode
up to Hale.
"You the captain of this guard?"
"Yes," said Hale; "and you?" Rufe shook his head with angry
impatience, and Hale, thinking he had some communication to make,
ignored his refusal to answer.
"I hear that a fellow can't blow a whistle or holler, or shoot off
his pistol in this town without gittin' arrested."
"That's true--why?" Rufe's black eyes gleamed vindictively.
"Nothin'," he said, and he turned to his horse.
Ten minutes later, as Mockaby was passing down the dummy track, a
whistle was blown on the river bank, a high yell was raised, a
pistol shot quickly followed and he started for the sound of them
on a run. A few minutes later three more pistol shots rang out,
and Hale rushed to the river bank to find Mockaby stretched out on
the ground, dying, and a mountaineer lout pointing after a man on
horseback, who was making at a swift gallop for the mouth of the
gap and the hills.
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