“I’ll he’p yer, whether you deputize me or not!” grunted Bradley, as he hung to the hand which still held the knife, “I’ll he’p yer cut ’is d——­d throat, the cowardly whelp!”

“I’ve got nothin’ ’gin nuther party,” said the bar-keeper, “but I reckon I’ll have to obey the law.”

“He’s attempted deliberate murder on a unarmed man,” Bradley informed the sheriff; “fust with a gun an’ then with a knife.  Ef you don’t jail ’im, Bale Warlick, you’ll never hold office in Cohutta Valley agin.”

The sheriff stepped up to Wambush.

“Drap that knife!” he ordered.  “Drap it!”

“Go to h——!” Toot ceased his struggling and glared defiantly into the face of the sheriff.

“Drap that knife!” The sheriff was becoming angered.  He grasped Wambush’s hand and tried to take the knife away, but Toot’s fingers were like coils of wire.

“I’ll see you damned fust!” grunted Wambush, and, powerless to do anything else, he spat in the sheriff’s face.

“d——­n you, I’ll kill you!” roared Warlick, and he struck Wambush on the jaw.  Wambush tried to kick him in the stomach, but Bradley prevented it by jerking him backward.  It now became a struggle between three men and one, and that one really seemed equal in strength to the other three.

“Drap the knife!” yelled Warlick again, and he drew a big revolver, and with the butt of it began to hammer Toot’s clinched fingers.  As he did this, Bradley and Hillhouse drew Wambush backward and down to the ground.

“I’ll pay you for this, Bale Warlick,” he groaned in pain, but he still held to the knife.

“Let go that knife,” thundered the sheriff.  “Let it a-loose, I tell you, or I’ll mash your skull!”

“Not while I hold ’im, Bale,” said the bar-keeper, sullenly.  “Law or no law, I won’t he’p beat no man ’at’s down!”

“Let go that knife!” The sheriff spoke the last word almost in a scream, and he beat Wambush’s knuckles so furiously that the knife fell to the ground.

He then pinned Toot’s legs to the earth with his knees, and held the knife up to a man in the crowd.

“Keep it jest like it is fur evidence,” he panted.  “Don’t shet it up or tetch the blade.”

Disarmed, Wambush seemed suddenly overcome with fear.  He allowed the sheriff to jerk him to his feet, and walked passively between the three men across the street to the stone jail.

Westerfelt stood alone on the sidewalk.  Everybody went to see Wambush locked up except Harriet and her mother.  They instantly came out to Westerfelt.  Harriet picked up a folded piece of letter paper.

“Did you drop this?” she asked.

He did not reply, but took the paper absently and thrust it into his coat pocket.  It had fallen from Wambush’s pocket.  He was very white and leaned heavily against a sycamore-tree.

“Oh, he’s cut your coat; look!” Harriet cried.