he had considered this shrewd trick for forcing Withers to assign him the bill of sale. It would have been all right, with that bill of sale in his pocket, to have headed the cattle into the Nation, the thing he should have done. No arraignment is as severe as conscience; no contempt as bitter as one's own. If Tom Laylander had been as small as he felt himself that night, Cal Withers and the sheriff never would have found him in the dark.
Windy Moore, and several other railroaders, who saw Withers and the sheriff pass the hotel, followed them to the cattle pens to see what was going to happen.
"How's this, Laylander?" the sheriff inquired, coming to a stop a little way from Tom's perch on the fence. "Withers charges you took his cattle away from him and drove 'em here. I'd like to hear your explanation."
"If you'll step up to the depot where there's a light, I'll give you a full and satisfactory answer to your question," Tom replied, thinking that a poor bluff would be better than no bluff at all.
Withers kept in the shade of the sheriff's protection, not half as keen to pull out his gun as he was the day he attached Tom's cattle. Several more railroaders, and a few scattering cowhands from the saloon, added to the little crowd that gathered around the three principals as they drew near the bay window of the depot, where the operator's light was bright.
"Here's a bill of sale from Colonel Withers for the cattle," said Tom, placing it in the sheriff's hand.
