“You’ll have exactly the same chance to weather this that we will.”

A mob of men was moving down the street in loose formation.  There was still time for a man to fling himself into the saddle and gallop away.

“You’d rather I’d stay, Billie.”

“Yes.  I’m sheriff.  I’d like to show this drunken outfit they can’t take a prisoner from me.”

Clanton gave a little whoop of delight.  “Go to it, son.  You’re law west of the Pecos.  Let’s see you make it stick.”

Live-Oaks was as yet the terminus of the railroad.  The train backed into the station just as the first of the mob arrived.

“Nothin’ doin’, Prince,” announced Yankie, swaggering forward.  “You’re not goin’ to take this fellow Clanton away.  We’ve come to get him.”

“That’s right,” agreed Albeen.

Jimmie-Go-Get-’Em grinned.  “Makes twice now you’ve come to get me.”

“We didn’t make it go last time.  Different now,” said Bancock, moving forward.

“That’s near enough,” ordered Prince.  “You’ve made a mistake, boys.  I’m sheriff of Washington County, and this man’s my prisoner.”

“He’s yore old side kick, too, ain’t he?” jeered Yankie.

Goodheart, following the orders he had received, moved forward to the engine and climbed into the cab beside the engineer and fireman.  The sheriff and his prisoner backed to the steps of the smoking-car.  Billie had had a word with the brakeman, his young friend Bud Proctor, who had at once locked the door at the other end of the smoker.

“Now,” said Prince in a low voice.

Jim ran up lightly to the platform of the coach and passed inside.  A howl of anger rose from the mob.  There was a rush forward.  Billie was on the lower step.  His long leg lifted, the toe caught Yankie on the point of the chin, and the rustler went back head first into the crowd as though he had been shot from a catapult.

Instantly Prince leaped for the platform and whirled on the mob.  He held now a gun in each hand.  His eyes glittered dangerously as they swept the upturned faces.  They carried to every man in the crowd the message that his prisoner could not be taken as long as the sheriff was alive.

Clanton threw open a window of the coach, rested his arms on the sill, and looked out.  Again there was a roar of rage and a forward surge of the dense pack on the station platform.

“He ain’t even got irons on the man’s hands!” a voice shouted.  “It’s a frame-up to git him away from us!”

“Don’t hide back there in the rear, Roush.  Come right up to the front an’ tell me that,” called back Prince.  “You’re right about one thing.  I don’t need to handcuff Clanton.  He has surrendered for trial, an’ I’m here to see he gets a fair one.  I’ll do it if I have to put irons in his hands—­shootin’ irons.”

Jim Clanton, his head framed in the window, laughed insolently.  He was a picture of raffish, devil-may-care ease.