"Do you figger you'll find it?" asked a quiet voice behind him.
He turned and looked into the steady muzzle of a Colt. Behind that
revolver was a thin, handsome face with a lock of jet black hair
falling over the forehead. Calder knew men, and now he felt a strange
absence of any desire to attempt a gun-play.
"I was just taking a stroll through the willows," he said, with a
mighty attempt at carelessness.
"Oh," said the other. "It appeared to me you was sort of huntin' for
something. You was headed straight for my hoss."
Calder strove to find some way out. He could not. There was no waver
in the hand that held that black gun. The brown eyes were decidedly
discouraging to any attempt at a surprise. He felt helpless for the
first time in his career.
"Go over to him, Bart," said the gentle voice of the stranger. "Stand
fast!"
The last two words, directed to Calder came, with a metallic hardness,
for the marshal started as a great black dog slipped from behind a
tree and slunk towards him. This was the shadow which moved more
swiftly and noiselessly than a human being.
"Keep back that damned wolf," he said desperately.
"He ain't goin' to hurt you," said the calm voice.
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