two blue-clad guards on horseback, going swiftly, bent forward in their saddles. Later, from a knoll he saw a whole sheriff’s posse trot by, shining with newly distributed badges, clattering with weapons—sawed-off shot-guns, repeating rifles, six-shooters. The bead of his gun was upon the little band, playfully springing from one to the other, but he did not shoot.
He came upon them again at noon, in a little town consisting of a general merchandise store, a saloon, a post-office, and a huddle of cottages. They were gathered in a picturesque group on the high wooden sidewalk in front of the saloon, tilted back on rawhide chairs, or standing about with clanging spurs, their rifles against the wall, their horses tied to the rack in the street, a circle of admiring urchins about them. The leader, a big, jovial man, was speaking vociferously amid a popping of small boastful interruptions, when Collins, gun in hand, chin thrust forward, walked in down the middle of the main street. A small boy, with a shout, raised his arm, pointing; the men sprang to their feet.
