Tom Tuttle fidgeted his big bulk and cleared his throat.  Words did not come so easily to him as deeds, but Ellhorn’s way of putting it made explanation necessary.  “I don’t mean it that way, Tom.  Once, last year, down in Plumas, when Emerson would n’t let us shoot into that crowd that wanted to hang him, I wondered for just a second if he was afraid, and it made me plumb sick.  But I saw right away that it was just Emerson’s judgment that there ought n’t to be any shootin’ right then, and he was plumb right about it.  No, Tom, I sure reckon there ain’t a drop of blood in Emerson’s veins that would n’t be ready for a fight any minute, if ’t was his judgment that there ought to be a fight, even if he has got married.  But we-all must remember that he ’s got a wife now, and can’t cut out from his family and go rushin’ round the country like a steer on the prod every time you get drunk and raise hell, or every time I need help.  We ’ll have to pull together after this, Tom, and leave Emerson out.  It would be too much like stackin’ the cards against Mrs. Emerson if we didn’t.”

As Tuttle ended he saw a gleam in the other’s eyes that caused him to add with emphasis, “And I ‘m not goin’ to call him up here, and don’t you do it, either!”

Nick got up, shook himself, and winked at the hole in the wall where had been the electric button.  He was a handsome man, as tall as Tuttle, but more slenderly built, with clean-cut features, dancing black eyes, and a black mustache that swept in an upward curve over his tanned cheek.  His friend scrutinized him anxiously as he slid cartridges into the empty chambers of his revolver.

“Sure you ’re sober, Nick?”

Ellhorn laughed.  “How the devil can I tell?  I can walk straight and see straight and shoot straight; and if that ain’t sober enough to tackle any four-spot Greaser, I might just as well get drunk again!”

“Well, I reckon you ’re sober enough to jump into this job with me now; and if you stay sober, it’s all right.  But if I catch you drinkin’ another drop till we get through with this business, I ’ll run you back into this room and sit on your belly till you ’re ready to holler quits!”

It was a dangerous solidarity of crime and mutual protection against which the two deputy marshals started out alone.  The Dysert gang had been organized originally as a secret society to further the political ambitions of men who were not overscrupulous as to instruments or methods.  But gradually it had drifted into a means of wreaking private revenge and compelling money tribute.  Those of its early members who were of the law abiding sort had left it long before, and its membership had dwindled to a handful of Mexicans of the recklessly criminal sort.  They were credited, in the general belief, with thefts, assaults, and murders; but so closely had they held together, so potent was their influence with men in public station, and so general was the fear of the bloody revenges they did not hesitate to take, that not one of them had yet been convicted of crime.