When Harlan heard the nickname for the first time he stopped pulling the
cork out of a whiskey bottle long enough to remark, casually, "I allus
reckoned Kansas was purty close to hell," and said no more about it.
Harlan was the proprietor and bartender of the Oasis and catered to the
excessive and uncritical thirsts of the ruck of range society, and he
had objected vigorously to the placing of the second sign in his place
of business; but at the close of an incisive if inelegant reply from the
marshal, the sign went up, and stayed up. Edwards' language and delivery
were as convincing as his fists.
The marshal did not like the Oasis; indeed, he went further and
cordially hated it. Harlan's saloon was a thorn in his side and he was
only waiting for a good excuse to wipe it off the local map. He was the
Law, and behind him were the range riders, who would be only too glad
to have the nest of rustlers wiped out and its gang of ne'er-do-wells
scattered to the four winds. Indeed, he had been given to understand
in a most polite and diplomatic way that if this were not done lawfully
they would try to do it themselves, and they had great faith in their
ability to handle the situation in a thorough and workmanlike manner.
This would not do in a law-abiding community, as he called the town, and
so he had replied that the work was his, and that it would be performed
as soon as he believed himself justified to act.
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