The hunting cry had the baying timbre of the wolf pack. Women took it up with shrill voices. Main Street was seething.
Still onward rode the cavalcade toward the courthouse. Uncle Alf held his head high, casting an eagle glance from sidewalk to side-walk. Hilma, every nerve taut as a drumhead, kept her eyes jumping from figure to figure along the route, watching for a single move of a hand to a holster. The Killer's face had gone fish white; he swayed slightly in his saddle as if under the assaults of sound waves become propulsive. Zang Whistler, come for the first time in his outlawry to the domain of law, rode easily and with the ghost of a smile lurking in his eyes.
The crowd fell in behind the heels of Zang's horse and followed to the courthouse. But at a respectful distance, for ever and again Zang would cause his horse to swerve broadside on to the hurly-burly behind and would run a swift eye over the forward rank. Always his .45 was resting easily on his saddle horn.
Sheriff Red Agnew in his shirt sleeves came tumbling out of the wing of the courthouse where he lodged—for he was chief jailer as well as sheriff. Him Zang greeted cordially:
