An' let me tell you this: _You_ stay away from
Kansas--they hangs people like you back there. That's whatever. You pack
up an' git out of this town or I'll start a burying plot with you on
yore own land."
The low, angry buzz of Harlan's friends and their savage, scowling faces
would have deterred a less determined man; but Edwards knew they were
afraid of him, and the men on whom he could call to back him up. And he
knew that there must always be a start, there must be one man to show
the way; and each of the men he faced was waiting for some one else to
lead.
"You all slip over the horizon before dark to-night, an' it's dark early
these days," he continued. "_Don't get restless with yore hands!_" he
snapped ominously at the crowd. "I means what I say--you shake the mud
from this town off yore boots before dark--before that Bar-20 outfit
gets back," he finished meaningly.
Questions, imprecations, and threats filled the room, and the crowd
began to spread out slowly. His guns came out like a flash and he
laughed with the elation that comes with impending battle. "The first
man to start it'll drop," he said evenly. "Who's going to be the
martyr?"
"I _won't_ leave town!" shouted Harlan. "I'll stay here if I'm killed
for it!"
"I admire yore loyalty to principle, but you've got damned little
sense," retorted the marshal.
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