As Melroy and Doris Rives approached, the talking died out and the men
turned. In the sudden silence, one voice, harshly strident, continued:
"... do they think this is, anyhow? We don't hafta take none of that."
Somebody must have nudged the speaker, trying without success to hush
him. The bellicose voice continued, and Melroy spotted the
speaker--short, thick-set, his arms jutting out at an angle from his
body, his heavy features soured with anger.
"Like we was a lotta halfwits, 'r nuts, 'r some'n! Well, we don't hafta
stand for this. They ain't got no right--"
Doris Rives clung tighter to Melroy's arm as he pushed a way for himself
and her through the crowd and into the temporary office. Inside, they
were met by a young man with a deputy marshal's badge on his flannel
shirt and a .38 revolver on his hip.
"Ben Puryear: Dr. Rives," Melroy introduced. "Who's the mouthy character
outside?"
"One of the roustabouts; name's Burris," Puryear replied. "Wash-room
lawyer."
Melroy nodded. "You always get one or two like that.
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