The voice was now beside them, scarcely a yard away, yet they eoald see nothing on account of the light, which was intermittent, frequently going out for an instant as the operator's thumb tired on the switch.
"Come on, get a move on," the voice went on. "Roll up your blankets an' trot along. I want you."
"Who in hell are you?" Billy demanded.
"I'm the constable. Come on."
"Well, what do you want?"
"You, of course, the pair of you."
"What for?"
"Vagrancy. Now hustle. I ain't goin' to loaf here all night."
"Aw, chase yourself," Billy advised. "I ain't a vag. I'm a workingman."
"Maybe you are an' maybe you ain't," said the constable; "but you can tell all that to Judge Neusbaumer in the mornin'."
"Why you. .. you stinkin', dirty cur, you think you're goin' to pull me," Billy began. "Turn the light on yourself. I want to see what kind of an ugly mug you got. Pull me, eh? Pull me? For two cents I'd get up there an' beat you to a jelly, you--"
"No, no, Billy," Saxon pleaded. "Don't make trouble. It would mean jail."
"That's right," the constable approved, "listen to your woman."
"She's my wife, an' see you speak of her as such," Billy warned.
"Now get out, if you know what's good for yourself."
"I've seen your kind before," the constable retorted. "An' I've got my little persuader with me. Take a squint."
The shaft of light shifted, and out of the darkness, illuminated with ghastly brilliance, they saw thrust a hand holding a revolver. This hand seemed a thing apart, self-existent, with no corporeal attachment, and it appeared and disappeared like an apparition as the thumb-pressure wavered on the switch. One moment they were staring at the hand and revolver, the next moment at impenetrable darkness, and the next moment again at the hand and revolver.
"Now, I guess you'll come," the constable gloated.
"You got another guess comin'," Billy began.
But at that moment the light went out. They heard a quick movement on the officer's part and the thud of the light-stick on the ground. Both Billy and the constable fumbled for it, but Billy found it and flashed it on the other. They saw a gray-bearded man clad in streaming oilskins. He was an old man, and reminded Saxon of the sort she had been used to see in Grand Army processions on Decoration Day.
"Give me that stick," he bullied.
Billy sneered a refusal.
"Then I'll put a hole through you, by criminy."
He leveled the revolver directly at Billy, whose thumb on the switch did not waver, and they could see the gleaming bullet-tips in the chambers of the cylinder.
"Why, you whiskery old skunk, you ain't got the grit to shoot sour apples," was Billy's answer. "I know your kind--brave as lions when it comes to pullin' miserable, broken-spirited bindle stiffs, but as leery as a yellow dog when you face a man. Pull that trigger! Why, you pusillanimous piece of dirt, you'd run with your tail between your legs if I said boo!"
Suiting action to the word, Billy let out an explosive "BOO!" and Saxon giggled involuntarily at the startle it caused in the constable.
"I'll give you a last chance," the latter grated through his teeth. "Turn over that light-stick an' come along peaceable, or I'll lay you out."
Saxon was frightened for Billy's sake, and yet only half frightened. She had a faith that the man dared not fire, and she felt the old familiar thrills of admiration for Billy's courage.
She could not see his face, but she knew in all certitude that it was bleak and passionless in the terrifying way she had seen it when he fought the three Irishmen.
"You ain't the first man I killed," the constable threatened.
"I'm an old soldier, an' I ain't squeamish over blood--"
"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Saxon broke in, "trying to shame and disgrace peaceable people who've done no wrong."
"You've done wrong sleepin' here," was his vindication. "This ain't your property. It's agin the law. An' folks that go agin the law go to jail, as the two of you'll go. I've sent many a tramp up for thirty days for sleepin' in this very shack. Why, it's a regular trap for 'em. I got a good glimpse of your faces an' could see you was tough characters." He turned on Billy.
"I've fooled enough with you. Are you goin' to give in an' come peaceable?"
"I'm goin' to tell you a couple of things, old boss," Billy answered. "Number one: you ain't goin' to pull us. Number two: we're goin' to sleep the night out here."
"Gimme that light-stick," the constable demanded peremptorily.
"G'wan, Whiskers. You're standin' on your foot. Beat it. Pull your freight. As for your torch you'll find it outside in the mud."
Billy shifted the light until it illuminated the doorway, and then threw the stick as he would pitch a baseball. They were now in total darkness, and they could hear the intruder gritting his teeth in rage.
"Now start your shootin' an' see what'll happen to you," Billy advised menacingly.
Saxon felt for Billy's hand and squeezed it proudly. The constable grumbled some threat.
"What's that?" Billy demanded sharply. "Ain't you gone yet? Now listen to me, Whiskers. I've put up with all your shenanigan I'm goin' to. Now get out or I'll throw you out. An' if you come monkeyin, around here again you'll get yours. Now get!"
So great was the roar of the storm that they could hear nothing.
Billy rolled a cigarette. When he lighted it, they saw the barn was empty. Billy chuckled.
"Say, I was so mad I clean forgot my run-around. It's only just beginnin' to tune up again."
Saxon made him lie down and receive her soothing ministrations.
"There is no use moving till morning, " she said. "Then, just as soon as it's light, we'll catch a car into San Jose, rent a room, get a hot breakfast, and go to a drug store for the proper stuff for poulticing or whatever treatment's needed."
"But Benson," Billy demurred.
"I'll telephone him from town. It will only cost five cents. I saw he had, a wire. And you couldn't plow on account of the rain, even if your finger was well. Besides, we'll both be mending together. My heel will be all right by the time it clears up and we can start traveling.
