Part 28 (1/2)
”Well,” he said, ”if I can keep out of my friend French's way for a few hours longer, I think I can promise you that I shall be a free man when I return from Bethel. I'm off now, Professor. Wish me good luck!”
”My friend,” the Professor replied, ”I wish you the best of luck, but more than anything else in the world,” he added, a little peevishly, ”I hope you may bring me back my servant Craig, and leave us both in peace.”
Quest stepped off the cars at Bethel a little before noon that morning.
The Sheriff met him at the depot and greeted him cordially but with obvious surprise.
”Say, Mr. Quest,” he exclaimed, as they turned away, ”I know these men are wanted on your charge, but I thought--you'll excuse my saying so--that you were in some trouble yourself.”
Quest nodded.
”I'm out of that--came out yesterday.”
”Very glad to hear it,” the Sheriff a.s.sured him heartily. ”I never thought that they'd be able to hold you.”
”They hadn't a chance,” Quest admitted. ”Things turned out a little awkwardly at first, but this affair is going to put me on my feet again.
The moment my car is identified and Red Gallagher and his mate arrested, every sc.r.a.p of evidence against me goes.”
”Well, here's the garage and the man who bought the car,” the Sheriff remarked, ”and there's the car itself in the road. It's for you to say whether it can be identified.”
Quest drew a sigh of relief.
”That's mine, right enough,” he declared. ”Now for the men.”
”Say, I want to tell you something,” the Sheriff began dubiously. ”These two are real thugs. They ain't going to take it lying down.”
”Where are they?” Quest demanded.
”In the worst saloon here,” the Sheriff replied. ”They've been there pretty well all night, drinking, and they're there again this morning, hard at it. They've both got firearms, and though I ain't exactly a nervous man, Mr. Quest--”
”You leave it to me,” Quest interrupted. ”This is my job and I want to take the men myself.”
”You'll never do it,” the Sheriff declared.
”Look here,” Quest explained, ”if I let you and your men go in, there will be a free fight, and as likely as not you will kill one, if not both of the men. I want them alive.”
”Well, it's your show,” the Sheriff admitted, stopping before a disreputable-looking building. ”This is the saloon. They've turned the place upside down since they've been here. You can hear the row they're making now. Free drinks to all the toughs in the town! They're pouring the stuff down all the time.”
”Well,” Quest decided, ”I'm going in and I'm going in unarmed. You can bring your men in later, if I call for help or if you hear any shooting.”
”You're asking for trouble,” the Sheriff warned him.
”I've got to do this my own way,” Quest insisted. ”Stand by now.”
He pushed open the door of the saloon. There were a dozen men drinking around the bar and in the centre of them Red Gallagher and his mate. They seemed to be all shouting together, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. Quest walked right up to the two men.
”Gallagher,” he said, ”you're my prisoner. Are you coming quietly?”
Gallagher's mate, who was half drunk, swung round and fired a wild shot in Quest's direction. The result was a general stampede. Red Gallagher alone remained motionless. Grim and dangerously silent, he held a pistol within a few inches of Quest's forehead.
”If my number's up,” he exclaimed ferociously, ”it won't be you who'll take me.”