Free Dead Warrior by John Myers Myers

a fellow with a bandanna tied around his left shoulder. It was he who undertook to answer.
    “You’ll find out when we gun you out of there.”
    “I asked the sheriff,” my companion called back. “For easier talking, I’ll give you a truce, Ed, but tell your deputies they’ll never see Centipede again if they crowd closer then I want them to.”
    The tall rider wearing the star brought his men up to the point which Terry then indicated. Up to that moment he had said nothing to McQuinn, but at the latter’s further urging he spoke his piece.
    “As sheriff of Borro County, New Mexico, I’ve rid to arrest the man charged with shootin’ Phil Cooke, which happensto be you. It shouldn’t be breakin’ the law to kill a snipe like what he was, but it is; and I’m paid to uphold the law.”
    “I see,” Terry said. “Has the sheriff of Borro County, New Mexico, got a writ of extradition that would authorize him to take a resident of Texas across the state boundary?”
    “I can’t say he has.” The sheriff, who had been looking troubled, cheered up a little. “Are we in Texas?”
    “No, but I am,” McQuinn retorted. “I can forgive a posse hot on the trail of a fugitive for ignoring the neutrality of No Man’s Land. But if you try to make an arrest in a sovereign state where you have no authority to operate, why that’s kidnapping — a crime with which we Texans have no patience. I’d never think of resisting arrest, mind you; but if a gang of marauders make a lawless assault upon me you can count on me — with the aid of my fellow Texan here — to make a good job of defending my constitutional rights.”
    Manifestly the sheriff was pleased. Three of his deputies were dubious, however, and wrath flamed up in the florid face of the man with the wounded shoulder.
    “A murderer ain’t got no rights,” he growled. “And where’s the proof that you’re in Texas anyhow?”
    It occurred to me that there was one appeal to reason which had not yet been made. “You can tell it by our accent,” I suggested, “and that tree over there, and
the kind of whiskey they serve in this saloon
.”
    That got home to them, particularly the sheriff. “We ain’t got any law business that takes us to Texas,” he asserted, “but we’d like to make a peaceful visit just to see how saloons on your side of the boundary compare with these here in No Man’s Land.”
    While relieved at the general outcome, I wasn’t sure that it was wise to dispense with our rifles. McQuinn seemedsatisfied that all was well, however, and was relighting his cigar as the posse entered Rustlers Roost.
    What immediately became plain was that decorum would be observed. Peace officers might keep truce with the man they wanted, under circumstances which made it improper for them to move against him, but fraternization was banned. The sheriff winked one eye in reply to Terry’s curt gesture of salute, but the rest of his long, bony face remained expressionless. The four deputies joined him at the bar, leaving us in possession of the table.
    To emphasize our isolation, McQuinn and I agreed to place that article of furniture beneath the window once more. It was while we were actually engaged in lifting the table that the wounded deputy snatched his gun from its holster.
    “You’re under arrest!” he roared at Terry. “Stick ’em up, or I’ll — ”
    He didn’t finish, because the sheriff had rammed a revolver into his ribs. “Put it up, Sid, and don’t do that again,” he said.
    Although complying with the order, Sid glared at his chief. “You’re a hell of a sheriff,” he stormed. “We follow an outlaw a hundred miles, and when we finally catch up with him you take his side and throw down on one of your own deputies.”
    “Well, I won’t be aimin’ a gun at no such critter if I have trouble with you again,” the sheriff informed him. “I swore you in, and I reckon I can swear you out. God damn you, you ain’t no deputy!”
    I