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 The twenty deputies with white handkerchiefs marking their arms and rifles in their hands whom Sheriff Agnew had placed before the courthouse and jail served to point an arrow to the logical course of action. If deputies guarded the jail it was because the law—whom Agnew served theoretically at least—considered something in that jail precious enough to protect against possible mob madness and preserve for its own due and mysterious courses. Who, if not the Killer?

The first answer to the unspoken query came from the mouth of the nondescript waif of the sheep range who had been first to recognize the Killer and announce his identity on Main Street that morning. Foot on rail and glass of whiskey in hand, the little prairie weasel had with much gravity propounded this truth: "Yes, sir, gents, I says the sooner the Killer's lookin' up a rope the better it 'll be all round, law or no law."

From so humble a source speculation waxed and grew into conviction, practically unanimous, that the shadowy thing called law—none too solidly established in the Big Country—would appreciate the favor of having a murderer taken off its hands and executed