Dunham didn't hint at any great overturn of conditions, now that the law had come to Pawnee Bend. He made no promise of faithful performance in his office, said no word that would make the most iniquitous move uneasily in their seats. But there was something under his modest, subtly humorous way that confirmed them in the wisdom of their choice.
He didn't abuse his opportunity; he had heard enough congressmen to know when to stop. He cut it off with unexpected suddenness, while their appreciation was keenest.
"I never did make a speech," he said, reaching out and grabbing his hat like he had been struck with sudden stage fright and was going to bolt, "and I'm not goin' to try to do it now. But if anybody knows the man that stole my horse, I wish they'd point him out."
"Congressional timber there," said the judge, nodding wisely to Major Simmons as the applause rose and spread, and the crowd of potential deputy sheriffs put their horses in movement for a grand rush into town.
But they were not thinking of congressional timber. They'd better take on a little refreshment and improve the shining hours: that was their thought. That dry-humored Bill Dunham was going to close the joints. He hadn't said a word about it, but they knew, to the simplest man among them, that the law had arrived in Pawnee Bend and the letter of it was going to be enforced. They would drink while they could, and if Bill Dunham called on them they'd be right there with the same rush to help him put padlocks on the doors of every joint in town. ·······
