“The chances are,” Galloway had already said in many quarters, “that Tom Cutter, getting excited, popped over his own sheriff.”

True, it was quite obvious that a charge lay at Galloway’s door, that of harboring a fugitive from justice and of resisting an officer.  But with Galloway’s money and influence, with the shrewdest technical lawyer in the State retained, with ample perjured testimony to be had as desired, the law-breaker saw no reason for present uneasiness.  Perhaps more than anything else he regretted the death of Vidal Nunez and the wounding of Kid Rickard.  For these matters vitally touched Jim Galloway and his swollen prestige among his henchmen; he had thrown the cloak of his protection about Vidal, had summoned him, promised him all safety . . . and Vidal was dead.  He knew that men spoke of this over and over and hushed when he came upon them; that Vidal’s brother, Pete, grumbled and muttered that Galloway was losing his grip, that soon or late he would fall, that falling he would drag others down with him.  More than ever before the whole county watched for the final duello between Galloway and Norton.  In half a dozen small towns and mining-camps men laid bets upon the result.

For the first time, also, there was much barbed comment and criticism of the sheriff.  He had gotten this man and that, it was true.  And yet, after all this time, he seemed to be no nearer than at the beginning to getting the man who counted.  There were those who recalled the killing of Bisbee of Las Palmas, and reminded others that there had been no attempt at prosecution.  Now there had come forth from the Casa Blanca fresh defiance and lawlessness and still Jim Galloway came and went as he pleased.  Those who criticised said that Norton was losing his nerve, or else that he was merely incompetent when measured by the yardstick of swift, incisive action wedded to capability.

“If he can’t get Jim Galloway, let him step out of the way and give the chance to a man who can,” was said many times and in many ways.  Even John Engle, Julius Struve, Tom Cutter, and Brocky Lane came to Norton at one time or another, telling him what they had heard, urging him to give some heed to popular clamor, and to begin legal action.

“Put the skids under him, Roddy,” pleaded Brocky Lane.  “We can’t slide him far the first trip, maybe.  But a year or so in jail will break his grip here.”

But Norton shook his head.  He was playing the game his way.

“The rifles are still in the cache,” he told Brocky.  “He is getting ready, as we know; further, just as my friends are beginning to find fault with me, so are his hangers-on beginning to wonder if they haven’t tied to the wrong man.  Just to save his own face he’ll have to start something pretty pronto.  And we know about where he is going to strike.  It’s up to us to hold our horses, Brocky.”

Brocky growled a bit, but went away more than half-persuaded.  He called at the hotel, paid his respects to Virginia, and affording her a satisfaction which it was hard for her to conceal, also paid her for her services rendered him in the cliff-dweller’s cave.