At his
shoulder, having evidently followed him from across the street, stood a
man. He was lean-faced, hardy-looking, with a strong, determined jaw
and steady, alert eyes. He was apparently about fifty years of age.
He grinned at Calumet's belligerent motion.
"Hearin' me?" he said to Calumet's cold, inquiring glance.
The latter's eyes glowed. "Layin' for me, eh? Thanks." He looked
curiously at the other. "Who are you?" he said.
"I'm Dave Toban, the sheriff." He threw back one side of his vest and
revealed a small silver star.
"Correct," said Calumet; "how you knowin' me?"
"Knowed your dad," said the sheriff. "You look a heap like him.
Besides," he added as his eyes twinkled, "there ain't no one else in
this section doin' any buildin' now."
"I'm sure much obliged for your interest," said Calumet. "An' so
Taggart's lookin' for me?"
"Been in town a week," continued the sheriff. "Been makin' his brags
what he's goin' to do to you. Says you wheedled him into comin' over
to the Lazy Y an' then beat him up. Got Denver Ed with him."
Calumet's eyes narrowed. "I know him," he said.
"Gun-fighter, ain't he?" questioned the sheriff.
"Yep." Calumet's eyelashes flickered; he smiled with straight lips.
"Drinkin'?" he invited.
"Wouldn't do," grinned the sheriff.
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