“About all in, Jim?” he inquired understandingly.  “Little out of your usual line, I reckon.  Take a bit o’ rest thar, an’ ye’ll be all right.  It’s safe ‘nough fer the present whar we are, fer as thet bunch o’ chicken thieves is concerned.  Yer wa’n’t hurt, or nuthin’, durin’ the scrap?”

“No more than a few bruises, but it an happened so quickly I haven’t any breath left.  I’ll be all right in a minute.  How are we fixed for ammunition?”

“Blame pore, if yer ask me; not more’n twenty cartridges atween us.  I wa’n’t a lookin’ fer no such scrap just now; but we’ll get along, I reckon, fer thar ain’t any o’ that bunch anxious ter get hurt none, less maybe it might be Lacy.  What gets my goat is this yere plug tobacco,” and he gazed mournfully at the small fragment in his hand.  “That ain’t hardly ’nough ov it left fer a good chaw; how are you fixed, Jim?”

“Never use it, Dan, but here’s a badly smashed cigar.”

“That’ll help some—­say, ain’t that one o’ them shirky birds yonder?  Sure; it’s Bill himself.  I don’t know whether ter take a snap-shot at the cuss, er wait an’ hear what he’s got ter say—­Hello, there!”

The fellow who stood partially revealed above the bank stared in the direction of the voice, and then ventured to expose himself further.

“Hello yourself,” he answered.  “Is that you, Brennan?”

The marshal hoisted himself to the top of the rock, the revolver in his hand clearly revealed in the bright sunlight.

“It’s me all right, Lacy,” he replied deliberately.  “You ought ter organise a sharpshooters’ club among that gang o’ yours; I was plumb disgusted the way they handle fire-arms.”

“Well, we’ve got yer now, Dan, so yer might as well quit yer crowin’.  We don’t have ter do no more shootin’; we’ll just naturally sit down yere, an’ starve yer out.  Maybe yer ready to talk now?”

“Sure; what’s the idea?”

“Well, yer an officer ov the law, ain’t yer?  Yer was chose marshal ter keep the peace, an’ take care o’ them that raised hell in Haskell.  Ain’t that yer job?”

“I reckon it is.”

“And didn’t I do more’n anybody else ter get yer appointed?  Then what are yer goin’ back on me for, and the rest ov the boys, an’ takin’ sides along with a murderer?  We want Jim Westcott, an’ you bet we’re a-goin’ ter get him.”

The little marshal spat into the water below, his face expressionless.  To all appearances he felt slight interest in the controversy.

“Nice of yer ter declare yer intentions, Lacy,” he admitted soberly, “only it sorter looks as if yer didn’t consider me as bein’ much in the way.  I reckon yer outlined my duty all right; that’s exactly my way o’ looking at it—­ter keep the peace, an’ take care o’ them that raised hell in Haskell.  I couldn’t ‘a’ told it no better myself.”

“Then what are yer fightin’ fer Westcott fer?”

“‘Cause he’s my prisoner, an’ is goin’ ter get a fair trial.  If he was the orneriest Mexican that ever come ’cross the line I’d stay with him—­that’s the law.”