Outside, he found only
one man, and in the act of mounting a black horse; the deputy marshal
made straight for that man until a huge black dog appeared from nowhere
blocking his path. It was a silent dog, but its teeth and eyes said
enough to stop Fatty in full career.
"Are you Barry?" he asked.
"That's me. Come here, Bart."
The big dog backed to the other side of the horse without shifting his
eyes from the marshal. The latter gingerly approached the rider, who sat
perfectly at ease in the saddle; most apparently he was in no haste to
leave.
"Barry," said the deputy, "don't make no play when I tell you who I am;
I don't mean you no harm, but my name's Matthews, and--" he drew back
the flap of his vest enough to show the glitter of his badge of office.
All the time his little beady eyes watched Barry with bird-like
intentness. The rider made not a move. And now Matthews noted more in
detail the feminine slenderness of the man and the large, placid eyes.
He stepped closer and dropped a confidential hand on the pommel of the
saddle.
"Son," he muttered, "I hear you made a clean play inside. Now, I know
Strann and his way. He was in wrong. There ain't a doubt of it, and if I
held you, you'd get clear on self-defense. So I ain't going to lay a
hand on you. You're free: but one thing more. You cut off
there--see?--and bear away north from the Three B's. You got a boss that
_is_, and believe me, you'll need him before you're through.
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