"Here," replied the señor.

"I am told," said Thorne, directly, "that there is here an assembly for
unlawful purposes. If so, I call on you in the name of the law to keep
the peace."

"Tom," rejoined Buck Johnson, "I want you to make me your deputy."

"For what purpose?"

"There is a dispossession notice to be served hereabouts; a trespasser
who must be put off from property that is not his."

"You men are after Hooper, and I know it. Now you can't run your
neighbours' quarrels with a gun, not anymore. This is a country of law
now."

"Tom," repeated Buck in a reasoning tone, "come in. Strike a light if
you want to: and take a look around. There's a lot of your friends here.
There's Jim Carson over in the corner, and Donald Macomber, and Marcus
Malley, and Dan Watkins."

At this slow telling of the most prominent names in the southwest cattle
industry Tom Thorne took a step into the room and lighted a match. The
little flame, held high above his head, burned down to his fingers while
he stared at the impassive faces surrounding him. Probably he had
thought to interfere dutifully in a local affair of considerable
seriousness; and there is no doubt that Tom Thorne was never afraid of
his duty. But here was Arizona itself gathered for purposes of its own.
He hardly noticed when the flame scorched his fingers.