“That infernal gorilla of a man is a poet,” Buck Ogilvy declared. “I'd think twice before I let him get out of the country, Bryce.”
“'Whose salt he eats, his song he sings,'” quoth Bryce. “I forgive you, Rondeau, and when I need a woods-boss like you, I'll send for you.”
At eleven o'clock Saturday night the deputy United States marshal arrived in Sequoia. Upon the advice of Buck Ogilvy, however, he made no attempt at service that night, notwithstanding the fact that Jules Rondeau and his bullies still guarded the crossing. At eight o'clock Sunday morning, however, Bryce Cardigan drove him down to the crossing. Buck Ogilvy was already there with his men, superintending the erection of a huge derrick close to the heap of obstructions placed on the crossing. Sexton was watching him uneasily, and flushed as Ogilvy pointed him out to the marshal.
“There's your meat, Marshal,” he announced. The marshal approached and extended toward Sexton a copy of the restraining order. The latter struck it aside and refused to accept it--whereupon the deputy marshal tapped him on the shoulder with it. “Tag! You're out of the game, my friend,” he said pleasantly.
As the document fluttered to Sexton's feet, the latter turned to Jules Rondeau. “I can no longer take charge here, Rondeau,” he explained. “I am forbidden to interfere.”
“Jules Rondeau can do ze job,” the woods-boss replied easily. “Ze law, she have not restrain' me. I guess mebbeso you don' take dose theengs away, eh, M'sieur Cardigan. Myself, I lak see.”
The deputy marshal handed Rondeau a paper, at the same time showing his badge. “You're out, too, my friend,” he laughed. “Don't be foolish and try to buck the law. If you do, I shall have to place a nice little pair of handcuffs on you and throw you in jail--and if you resist arrest, I shall have to shoot you. I have one of these little restraining orders for every able-bodied man in the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's employ--thanks to Mr. Ogilvy's foresight; so it is useless to try to beat this game on a technicality.”
Sexton, who still lingered, made a gesture of surrender. “Dismiss your crew, Rondeau,” he ordered. “We're whipped to a frazzle.”
A gleam of pleasure, not unmixed with triumph, lighted the dark eyes of the French-Canadian. “I tol' M'sieur Sexton she cannot fight M'sieur Cardigan and win,” he said simply, “Now mebbe he believe that Jules Rondeau know somet'ing.”