A big man, with a drawn six-shooter,
stepped to Sanderson's side. A dozen more shoved forward and stood
near him, the crowd moving back, Sanderson sensed the movement and
stood erect, leaving Owen still on the floor. One look at the hostile
faces around him convinced Sanderson that the men were there by design.
He grinned mirthlessly into the face of the man with the drawn pistol.
"Frame-up, eh?" he said. "What's the game?"
"You're wanted for drawin' a gun on Dave Silverthorn--in his office.
I'm a deputy sheriff, an' I've got a warrant for you. Want to see it?"
Sanderson did not answer. Here was a manifestation of Dale's power and
cupidity.
The charge was a mere subterfuge, designed to deprive him of his
liberty. Sanderson had no intention of submitting.
The deputy saw resistance in the gleam of Sanderson's eyes, and he
spoke sharply, warningly:
"Don't try any funny business; I've a dozen men here!"
Sanderson laughed in his face. He lunged forward, striking bitterly
with the movement.
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