might succeed. And success in this enterprise would be the biggest,
the crowning achievement in all their experience as officers of the law.

As midnight approached, Tuttle scarcely knew whether he more hoped or
dreaded that Mead would come. He had faced the muzzle of loaded guns
with less trepidation and anxiety than he felt as he stepped out on the
sidewalk when he heard the rattle of the omnibus. A tall figure, big
and broad-shouldered, swung down from the vehicle.

"Emerson--Emerson--" Tuttle stammered, his voice shaking and dying in
his throat into something very like a sob. Then he gripped Mead's hand
and said casually, "How 's Mrs. Emerson?"

Mead replied merely, "She's well"; but Tom caught an unwonted
intonation of tenderness in his voice and saw his face soften and glow
for an instant before he went on anxiously, "What's up?--and where 's
Nick?"

Tuttle wavered a little the next morning in his purpose of attacking
the Dysert retreat. He took Ellhorn aside and asked his opinion about
letting the matter rest until the return of Marshal Black and Sheriff
Williamson.

Nick was quite sober again and looked back over his misdeeds of the day
before with a jaunty smile and a penitent shake of the head. "Sure,
Tom," he said, and the Irish roll in his voice showed that his
contrition was sincere enough to move him deeply, "sure and I was a
measly, beastly, ornery kiote to go back on you like that, and you 'd
have served me right if you 'd set on me twice as long as you did!"