Jeff Cotton sprang forward. “Stop!” he cried. But Hal did not stop.
“See here, young man!” cried the marshal. “Don't carry this joke too far!” And he sprang to the door, just ahead of his prisoner. His hand moved toward his hip.
“Draw your gun, Cotton,” said Hal; and, as the marshal obeyed, “Now I will stop. If I obey you in future, it will be at the point of your revolver.”
The marshal's mouth was dangerous-looking. “You may find that in this country there's not so much between the drawing of a gun and the firing of it!”
“I've explained my attitude,” replied Hal. “What are your orders?”
“Come back and sit in this chair.”
So Hal sat, and the marshal went to his desk, and took up the telephone. “Number seven,” he said, and waited a moment. “That you, Tom? Bring the car right away.”
He hung up the receiver, and there followed a silence; finally Hal inquired, “I'm going to Pedro?”
There was no reply.
“I see I've got on your nerves,” said Hal. “But I don't suppose it's occurred to you that you deprived me of my money last night. Also, I've an account with the company, some money coming to me for my work? What about that?”
The marshal took up the receiver and gave another number. “Hello, Simpson. This is Cotton. Will you figure out the time of Joe Smith, buddy in Number Two, and send over the cash. Get his account at the store; and be quick, we're waiting for it. He's going out in a hurry.” Again he hung up the receiver.
“Tell me,” said Hal, “did you take that trouble for Mike Sikoria?”
There was silence.
“Let me suggest that when you get my time, you give me part of it in scrip. I want it for a souvenir.”
Still there was silence.
“You know,” persisted the prisoner, tormentingly, “there's a law against paying wages in scrip.”
The marshal was goaded to speech. “We don't pay in scrip.”
“But you do, man! You know you do!”
“We give it when they ask their money ahead.”
“The law requires you to pay them twice a month, and you don't do it. You pay them once a month, and meantime, if they need money, you give them this imitation money!”
“Well, if it satisfies them, where's your kick?”
“If it doesn't satisfy them, you put them on the train and ship them out?”
The marshal sat in silence, tapping impatiently with his fingers on the desk.
“Cotton,” Hal began, again, “I'm out for education, and there's something I'd like you to explain to me—a problem in human psychology. When a man puts through a deal like this, what does he tell himself about it?”
“Young man,” said the marshal, “if you'll pardon me, you are getting to be a bore.”
“Oh, but we've got an automobile ride before us! Surely we can't sit in silence all the way!” After a moment he added, in a coaxing tone, “I really want to learn, you know. You might be able to win me over.”
“No!” said Cotton, promptly. “I'll not go in for anything like that!”
“But why not?”
“Because, I'm no match for you in long-windedness. I've heard you agitators before, you're all alike: you think the world is run by talk—but it isn't.”
Hal had come to realise that he was not getting anywhere in his duel with the camp-marshal. He had made every effort to get somewhere; he had argued, threatened, bluffed, he had even sung songs for the marshal! But the marshal was going to ship him out, that was all there was to it.
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