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 The sheriff gave this information with evident satisfaction. He could see that every word was making him a vote.

"I demand that you arrest this man without a warrant, then."

"I'd nearly bust a belly-band to oblige you, Colonel, but I couldn't do that."

"The law gives you power to arrest anybody caught in the commission of a crime," Withers insisted. "Do your duty, sheriff—I demand you to do your duty!"

"Yes, and I'll do it without you or anybody else tellin' me," the sheriff replied, with corrective severity.

"You're in on the steal, you long-hungry office hyenar! I'll sue you on your bond!'

"You're beginnin' to talk foolish," the sheriff said.

"Puttin' that man in deputy to guard them cattle, playin' into his hand from the jump. I'll sue you on your bond!"

"If you want to do anything, swear out a writ of replevy," the sheriff advised, undisturbed by the cowman's threats. "There's Judge Coleman over there—take it up with him. I can't do nothing for you."

Judge Coleman came forward with the suggestion, as if to offer his services in the matter of the writ of replevin. He was a short, spare man with a grayishred beard, a lathe machinist in the shops, the only justice of the peace in McPacken. There was a knowing Scottish twinkle in his sharp little blue eyes as he stood in the light gravely shaking his head.

"I couldn't give you a writ of replevin, Mr. Withers,"