“Ninety thousand dollars.  The market price for three thousand head of cattle.”

“There isn’t that much in the vaults!” protested Maison in a gasping whisper.  “We never keep that amount of money on hand.”

He would have said more, but he saw Sanderson’s grin become bitter; saw the arm holding the six-shooter stiffen suggestively.

Maison raised his hands in horror.

“Wait!” he said, pleadingly.  “I’ll see.  Good God, man, keep the muzzle of that gun away!”

“Ninety thousand will do it,” Sanderson grimly told him, “ninety thousand.  No less.  You can ask that God you call on so reckless to have ninety thousand in the vault when you go to look for it, right away.

“Get up an’ dress!” he commanded.

He stood silently watching the banker as the latter got into his clothing.  Then, with a wave of his gun in the direction of the stairs he ordered Maison to precede him.  He kept close to the banker in the darkness of the rooms through which they passed, and finally when they reached the little room into which opened the big doors of the vault—­embedded in solid masonry—­Sanderson again spoke: 

“I want it in bills of large denomination.”  The banker was on his knees before the doors, working at the combination, and he looked around in silent objection at Sanderson’s voice.

“Big ones, I said,” repeated the latter.  “You’ve got them.  I was in Silverthorn’s rooms some hours ago, lookin’ over his books an’ things.  I saw a note there, showin’ that he’d deposited fifty thousand here the day before yesterday.  The note said it was cash.  You’ll have forty thousand more.  If you ain’t got it you’ll wish you had.”

Maison had it.  He drew it out in packages—­saffron-hued notes that he passed back to Sanderson reluctantly.  When he had passed back the exact amount he looked around.

Sanderson ordered him to close the doors, and with the banker preceding him they returned to the upper room, where Sanderson distributed the money over his person securely, the banker watching him.

When Sanderson had finished, he again spoke.  There was elation in his eyes, but they still were aflame with the threat of death and violence.

“Who’s the biggest an’ most honest man in town?” he said, “the one man that the folks here always think of when they’re in trouble an’ want a square deal?  Every town always has such a man.  Who is he?”

“Judge Graney,” said Maison.

“All right,” declared Sanderson.  “We’ll go see Judge Graney.  You’re goin’ to lead me to the place where he lives.  We’re goin’ to have him witness that you’ve paid me ninety thousand dollars for the stock you destroyed—­my cattle.  He’s goin’ to be all the law I’m goin’ to depend on—­in this case.  After a while—­if you sneaks go too strong—­I’ll let loose a little of my own law—­the kind I’ve showed you tonight.