with a gun, I know, but he's a professional, and he's jealous of his reputation. It's been six weeks or two months since Ford killed a man. He begins to get mean when it runs that long between killin's."
Dunham was not moved by this simple description of the city marshal's fretful state that called for a human sacrifice to quiet. He knew the mayor was not trying to frighten him. Kellogg's cold eyes, the sneering insult of his voice, his sauntering slow gait, the expressive cruelty of his very outlines, all proclaimed his nature. He was repellent as a snake. But Dunham was not afraid of him.
He stood considering his situation. Not the Bill Dunham of a few minutes ago, but a Bill Dunham suddenly become grimly decisive, gravely mature.
"There's no train through till nine-twenty," the mayor said, looking at his watch again, according to the habit of railroad men, and railroad village dwellers when speaking of a train. "That would be too late for you. There might be a stock train through, but they don't stop, unless to take water. You could swing onto one of them about a mile east of town; the grade slows 'em down there—the boys hop 'em right along."
"Thanks," said Dunham, speaking out of his abstraction, not even lifting his head, the word perfunctory on his tongue.
"Kellogg's a man of his word, he'll not crowd you before your hour's up," the mayor said. "Have you got money enough to buy a horse?"
"I guess I could make it."
