The door to the dining-room was wide. Around the table sat a dozen
men, with the sheriff at their head. The latter, somewhat red of face,
as if from the effort of a long speech, was talking low and earnestly,
sometimes brandishing his clenched fist with such violence that it
made his flabby cheeks quiver.
"We'll get to the house right after dawn," he was saying, "because
that's the time when most men are so thick-headed with sleep that--"
"Not Whistling Dan Barry," said one of the men, shaking his head. "He
won't be thick-headed. Remember, I seen him work in Elkhead, when he
slipped through the hands of a roomful of us."
A growl of agreement went around the table, and Black Bart in
sympathy, echoed the noise softly.
"What's that?" called the sheriff, raising his head sharply.
Dan, with a quick gesture, made Black Bart slink a pace back.
"Nothin'," replied one of the men. "This business is gettin' on your
nerves, sheriff. I don't blame you. It's gettin' on mine."
"I'm trustin' to you boys to stand back of me all through," said the
sheriff with a sort of whine, "but I'm thinkin' that we won't have no
trouble. When we see him we won't stop for no questions to be asked,
but turn loose with our six-guns an' shoot him down like a dog.
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