Yorky was a trifle surprised. "You're sittin' on it," he said, indicating the work bench.
Roberts got up and stood aside. "Get it."
The lank jaw of the jailer hung dolefully. He rubbed its bristles with a hand very unsure of itself.
"Now, you look a-hyer, Tex. I'm jailer, I am. I don't allow to go with you to bring in no bad-man. Nothin' of that sort. It ain't in the contract."
"I'm not askin' it. Get yore gat."
The little saddler got it, though with evident misgivings.
The brown, lean young man reseated himself on the bench. "I've come here to get yore prisoner," he explained.
"Sure," brightened the jailer. "Wait till I get my keys." He put the revolver down on the table and moved toward the nail on which hung two large keys.
"I'm just through tellin' you that I'm no longer a Ranger, but only a private citizen."
Yorky was perplexed. He felt he was not getting the drift of this conversation. "Well, an' I done said, fine, a young up 'n' comin' fellow like you--"
"You've got no business to turn yore prisoner over to me, Yorky. I'm not an officer."
"Oh, tha's all right. Anything you say, Tex."
"I'm goin' to give him my horse an' my guns an' tell him to hit the trail."
The puzzled lost-dog look was uppermost on the wrinkled little face just now. Yorky was clearly out of his depth. But of course Jack Roberts, the best Ranger in the Panhandle, must know what he was about.
"Suits me if it does you, Tex," the saddler chirped.
"No, sir. You've got to make a fight to hold Dinsmore. He's wanted for murder an' attempted robbery. You're here to see he doesn't get away."
"Make a fight! You mean ... fight you?"
"That's just what I mean. I'm out of reach of my gats. Unhook yore gun if I make a move toward you."
Yorky scratched his bewildered head. This certainly did beat the Dutch. He looked helplessly at this brown, lithe youth with the well-packed muscles.
"I'll be doggoned if I know what's eatin' you, Tex. I ain't a-goin' to fight you none a-tall."
"You bet you are! I've warned you because I don't want to take advantage of you, since I've always had the run of the place. But you're jailer here. You've got to fight--or have everybody in town say you're yellow."
A dull red burned into the cheeks of the little man. "I don't aim for to let no man say that, Tex."
"That's the way to talk, Yorky. I've got no more right to take Dinsmore away than any other man." Jack was playing with his lariat. He had made a small loop at one end and with it was swinging graceful ellipses in the air. "Don't you let me do it."