The sheriff stepped out the door, his hand on the butt of his Colt. “Sheriff?” Holt inquired. “Yep,” said the lawman. “Webb Haddock. What can I do fer you?” “Maybe fifteen miles north of here, there’s five dead men in an arroyo on the west bank of the Red. One of them is Rutledge Jackman. The other four coyotes stole these horses in New Orleans, leaving their owners for dead. I called on them to surrender and they came out shooting.” “Why . . . why, you can’t do . . .” Haddock stammered. “I can, and I have,” said Holt. “I’m a deputy U.S. marshal from Fort Smith and my authority overrides yours. I’ll want an inquest. For the record, I have witnesses who will testify to attempted murder. The stolen horses speak for themselves.” “Damn it,” Haddock shouted, “Mr. Jackman is—” “Dead,” said Holt, “and he had you to thank. After you showed him that telegram a while ago, he led us to these horses and the four skunks that took ’em.” “I don’t know nothin’ about no telegram,”
