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"
I
'm
not
going
back
,
"
doggedly
responds
Calhoun
.
"
By
what
authority
do
you
command
me
?
You
have
no
warrant
?
"
"
Hai
n't
I
,
though
?
"
interrupts
Zeb
.
"
What
d'ye
call
this
?
"
he
adds
,
pointing
to
his
rifle
.
"
Thur
's
my
warrant
,
by
the
grace
o
'
God
;
an
by
thet
same
,
this
chile
air
a
goin
'
to
execute
it
.
So
no
more
o
'
yur
durned
palaver
:
for
I
ai
n't
the
sort
to
stan
'
it
.
Take
yur
choice
,
Mister
Cash
Calhoun
.
Mount
thet
old
maar
o
'
mine
,
an
kum
along
quickly
;
or
try
the
toother
dodge
,
an
git
toated
like
a
packidge
o
'
merchandice
:
for
back
yur
boun
'
to
go
--
I
swar
it
by
the
Eturnal
!
"
Calhoun
makes
no
reply
He
glances
at
Stump
--
at
Gerald
--
despairingly
around
him
;
then
stealthily
towards
a
six-shooter
,
protruding
from
the
breast-pocket
of
his
coat
--
the
counterpart
of
that
shaken
out
of
his
hand
,
as
the
rope
settled
around
him
.
He
makes
an
effort
to
reach
the
pistol
--
feeble
,
because
only
half
resolved
.
He
is
restrained
by
the
lazo
;
perhaps
more
by
a
movement
on
the
part
of
Zeb
;
who
,
with
a
significant
gesture
,
brings
his
long
gun
to
the
level
.
"
Quick
!
"
exclaims
the
hunter
.
"
Mount
,
Mister
Calhoun
!
Thur
's
the
maar
awaitin
'
for
ye
.
Inter
the
seddle
,
I
say
!
"
Like
a
puppet
worked
by
the
wires
of
the
showman
,
the
ex-captain
of
cavalry
yields
compliance
with
the
commands
of
the
backwoodsman
.
He
does
so
,
from
a
consciousness
that
there
is
death
--
certain
death
--
in
disobeying
them
.
Mechanically
he
mounts
the
mare
;
and
,
without
resistance
,
suffers
her
to
be
led
away
from
the
spot
.
Zeb
,
afoot
,
strides
on
in
advance
.
