Tuttle gazed in open-mouthed and wide-eyed astonishment.  “What—­what—­do you mean, Nick?  You did n’t wire him to come?”

“No, I did n’t!  I told him you and me was up against the Dysert gang—­” Nick’s voice trailed off into a sleepy murmur—­“alone, and I—­was drunk—­and likely to get—­disorderly.”

“You measly, ornery—­” Tuttle began.  But he saw that Ellhorn was already asleep and he would not abuse his friend unless Nick could hear what he said.  So he shut his mouth and considered the situation.  He knew well enough that in the days before Emerson’s marriage any such message would have brought Mead to their aid as fast as steam could carry him.  But now, if he did not come—­well, what Nick had said was true, and they would know that the end of the old close friendship had come.  But, for the young wife’s sake, if he should come, he and Nick must not let him do anything foolhardy and they must try to keep him out of danger.

Tuttle waited up for the midnight train, on which, if Mead heeded Nick’s telegram, he would be likely to arrive.  In the meantime, he did some spying out of the land and learned that Dysert and some of his followers had hidden themselves, with arms, ammunition, and provisions, in an empty adobe house belonging to the head of the band.  The deputy marshal knew this meant that the criminals would resist to the last, and that any attempt to take them would be as perilous an adventure as he and his friends had ever faced.  If Emerson came and anything happened to him—­and it was very unlikely, if they carried the thing through, that any one of them would come out of it without at least serious injury—­then he and Ellhorn would feel that they had been the cause of the young wife’s bereavement.  And yet, with Mead’s help, they might succeed.  And success in this enterprise would be the biggest, the crowning achievement in all their experience as officers of the law.

As midnight approached, Tuttle scarcely knew whether he more hoped or dreaded that Mead would come.  He had faced the muzzle of loaded guns with less trepidation and anxiety than he felt as he stepped out on the sidewalk when he heard the rattle of the omnibus.  A tall figure, big and broad-shouldered, swung down from the vehicle.

“Emerson—­Emerson—­” Tuttle stammered, his voice shaking and dying in his throat into something very like a sob.  Then he gripped Mead’s hand and said casually, “How ’s Mrs. Emerson?”

Mead replied merely, “She’s well”; but Tom caught an unwonted intonation of tenderness in his voice and saw his face soften and glow for an instant before he went on anxiously, “What’s up?—­and where ’s Nick?”

Tuttle wavered a little the next morning in his purpose of attacking the Dysert retreat.  He took Ellhorn aside and asked his opinion about letting the matter rest until the return of Marshal Black and Sheriff Williamson.

Nick was quite sober again and looked back over his misdeeds of the day before with a jaunty smile and a penitent shake of the head.  “Sure, Tom,” he said, and the Irish roll in his voice showed that his contrition was sincere enough to move him deeply, “sure and I was a measly, beastly, ornery kiote to go back on you like that, and you ’d have served me right if you ’d set on me twice as long as you did!”