“Well, what the devil,” demanded Osterman, “has become of Bismarck?”
In fact, the butcher had seen nothing of Hooven. The minutes were passing, and still he failed to appear.
“What’s he up to, anyways?”
“Bet you what you like, they caught him. Just like that crazy Dutchman to get excited and go too near. You can always depend on Hooven to lose his head.”
Five minutes passed, then ten. The road towards Guadalajara lay empty, baking and white under the sun.
“Well, the marshal and S. Behrman don’t seem to be in any hurry, either.”
“Shall I go forward and reconnoitre, Governor?” asked Harran.
But Dabney, who stood next to Annixter, touched him on the shoulder and, without speaking, pointed down the road. Annixter looked, then suddenly cried out:
“Here comes Hooven.”
The German galloped into sight, around the turn of the road, his rifle laid across his saddle. He came on rapidly, pulled up, and dismounted at the ditch.
“Dey’re commen,” he cried, trembling with excitement. “I watch um long dime bei der side oaf der roadt in der busches. Dey shtop bei der gate oder side der relroadt trecks and talk long dime mit one n’udder. Den dey gome on. Dey’re gowun sure do zum monkey-doodle pizeness. Me, I see Gritschun put der kertridges in his guhn. I tink dey gowun to gome my blace first. Dey gowun to try put me off, tek my home, bei Gott.”
“All right, get down in here and keep quiet, Hooven. Don’t fire unless—”
“Here they are.”
A half-dozen voices uttered the cry at once.
There could be no mistake this time. A buggy, drawn by two horses, came into view around the curve of the road. Three riders accompanied it, and behind these, seen at intervals in a cloud of dust were two—three—five—six others.
This, then, was S. Behrman with the United States marshal and his posse. The event that had been so long in preparation, the event which it had been said would never come to pass, the last trial of strength, the last fight between the Trust and the People, the direct, brutal grapple of armed men, the law defied, the Government ignored, behold, here it was close at hand.
Osterman cocked his revolver, and in the profound silence that had fallen upon the scene, the click was plainly audible from end to end of the line.
“Remember our agreement, gentlemen,” cried Magnus, in a warning voice. “Mr. Osterman, I must ask you to let down the hammer of your weapon.”
No one answered. In absolute quiet, standing motionless in their places, the Leaguers watched the approach of the marshal.
Five minutes passed. The riders came on steadily. They drew nearer. The grind of the buggy wheels in the grit and dust of the road, and the prolonged clatter of the horses’ feet began to make itself heard. The Leaguers could distinguish the faces of their enemies.
In the buggy were S. Behrman and Cyrus Ruggles, the latter driving. A tall man in a frock coat and slouched hat—the marshal, beyond question—rode at the left of the buggy; Delaney, carrying a Winchester, at the right. Christian, the real estate broker, S. Behrman’s cousin, also with a rifle, could be made out just behind the marshal. Back of these, riding well up, was a group of horsemen, indistinguishable in the dust raised by the buggy’s wheels.
Steadily the distance between the Leaguers and the posse diminished.
“Don’t let them get too close, Governor,” whispered Harran.
When S. Behrman’s buggy was about one hundred yards distant from the irrigating ditch, Magnus sprang out upon the road, leaving his revolvers behind him. He beckoned Garnett and Gethings to follow, and the three ranchers, who, with the exception of Broderson, were the oldest men present, advanced, without arms, to meet the marshal.
Magnus cried aloud:
“Halt where you are.”
From their places in the ditch, Annixter, Osterman, Dabney, Harran, Hooven, Broderson, Cutter, and Phelps, their hands laid upon their revolvers, watched silently, alert, keen, ready for anything.
At the Governor’s words, they saw Ruggles pull sharply on the reins. The buggy came to a standstill, the riders doing likewise. Magnus approached the marshal, still followed by Garnett and Gethings, and began to speak. His voice was audible to the men in the ditch, but his words could not be made out. They heard the marshal reply quietly enough and the two shook hands. Delaney came around from the side of the buggy, his horse standing before the team across the road. He leaned from the saddle, listening to what was being said, but made no remark. From time to time, S. Behrman and Ruggles, from their seats in the buggy, interposed a sentence or two into the conversation, but at first, so far as the Leaguers could discern, neither Magnus nor the marshal paid them any attention. They saw, however, that the latter repeatedly shook his head and once they heard him exclaim in a loud voice:
“I only know my duty, Mr. Derrick.”
Then Gethings turned about, and seeing Delaney close at hand, addressed an unheard remark to him. The cowpuncher replied curtly and the words seemed to anger Gethings. He made a gesture, pointing back to the ditch, showing the intrenched Leaguers to the posse. Delaney appeared to communicate the news that the Leaguers were on hand and prepared to resist, to the other members of the party. They all looked toward the ditch and plainly saw the ranchers there, standing to their arms.
But meanwhile Ruggles had addressed himself more directly to Magnus, and between the two an angry discussion was going forward. Once even Harran heard his father exclaim:
“The statement is a lie and no one knows it better than yourself.”
“Here,” growled Annixter to Dabney, who stood next him in the ditch, “those fellows are getting too close. Look at them edging up. Don’t Magnus see that?”
The other members of the marshal’s force had come forward from their places behind the buggy and were spread out across the road. Some of them were gathered about Magnus, Garnett,
