You can't--" "Officer be damned!" retorted Irish, unawed.
He went out while Rusty was deciding to order him out, and started for the stable.

Halfway there he ducked into the shadow of the blacksmith shop and watched two men go up the street to Rusty's place, walking quickly.

He went on then, got his horse hurriedly without waiting to cinch the saddle, led him behind the blacksmith shop where he would not be likely to be found, and tied him there to the wreck of a freight wagon.
Then he went across lots to where Fred Wilson, manager of the general store, slept in a two-room shack belonging to the hotel.

The door was locked--Fred being a small man with little trust in Providence or in his overt physical prowess--and so he rapped cautiously upon the window until Fred awoke and wanted to know who in thunder was there.
Irish told his name, and presently went inside.

"I'm pulling outa town, Fred," he explained, "and I don't know when I'll be in again.