W. C. Tuttle

“ But Jim Legg reeled around on his high-heels, giggling drunkenly, the big gun in both hands.
“Don’t do that, you —— fool!” wailed Oyster. “Aw, fer—”
Wham! The big gun spouted smoke between Johnny Grant and Eskimo, who promptly fell sidewise, and the bullet tore into the dirt almost under the feet of the sheriff, who had stopped about fifty feet away. ”

“ Johnny took off his hat. “And you want to be a cowpuncher—with five hundred dollars!”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“Don’ nobody speak for a moment,” begged Oyster. “I want to conchentrate. I’m about to go into a tranch.”
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” warned Johnny. “The man is looking into the future.”
“Is he a medium?” asked Jim Legg, owl-eyed, as he stared at Oyster.
“Medium ——! He’s rare,” chucked Eskimo.
“I shee shomethin’ comin’ to a man named Jim Legg,” stated Oyster, his eyes closed tightly.
“Yuh see?” applauded Johnny. ”

“ Johnny Grant squinted thoughtfully.
“Must ’a’ been that German fambly that nested in down on the forks of Rio Creek,” said Eskimo. “They’re gone. Let’s go buy somethin’ to make a real, regular cowboy out of this here, now, Jimmy Limbs.”
THE sheriff and deputy came back to Blue Wells in bad humor. They stabled their horses and went to the office. Scotty Olson leaned against the doorway and looked across the street at the horses tied at the Oasis hitch-rack. The three at the far end were from the AK; a tall roan, a sorrel and a gray. ”

“ They filled their glasses and drank heartily. By this time Jim Legg seemed to be getting numb, but happily so. The world was bathed in a rosy glow, and he wanted to sing and dance.
“Jist what is yore business, Misser Legg?” asked Oyster.
“I came here,” said Jim, “to be a cowpuncher.”
Johnny Grant’s foot slipped and he sat down heavily on the bar-rail.
“That,” said Eskimo owlishly-wise, “is a ambitious thing for to become. I’ll betcha yuh came to the right place, Jim.” ”

“ Blue Wells has stood all it’s ever goin’ to from that layout. And,” he added, “I don’t care a —— who knows it.”
Lee Barnhardt turned on his heel and walked back to his office. Chet Le Moyne and Dug Haley, the man who had come with Le Moyne to guard the Santa Rita pay-roll, rode in and drew up in front of the store. Haley was a heavy-set, stolid looking person, with a wispy mustache and only a faint suggestion of ever having had eyebrows.
Le Moyne smiled and spoke to the men, but Haley merely nodded.
“I wanted to see you, Scotty,” said Le Moyne. “Goin’ back to your office pretty soon?” ”

“ That sounds funny to me.”
“It does sound rather queer,” admitted Le Moyne. “But I guess it happened. The messenger sure looked as though he had been through a fight. And he wasn’t there when the robbery took place, it seems. Anyway, the money is gone. We better get the mail, Jud, and head for the mine.”
“How much was in that pay-roll?” asked the merchant.
“Thirty-one thousand and eighty dollars, all in gold. It’ll make somebody happy, Abe.”
“Yes—or unhappy, Chet. I don’t reckon any man ever got a lot of happiness from what he stole. It’s unlucky money.” ”

“ Al Porter sagged back in a chair, placed his feet on top of the desk and drew his sombrero down over his eyes.
“If I was you I’d go over to the Oasis and have a talk with them AK scoundrels,” he told Scotty. “By ——, if I was sheriff of this county I’d shore impress upon ’em that this is a dignified office. I’d make it dignified, y’betcha.”
Scotty turned troubled eyes upon his deputy.
“You would, like ——! You’ll sag jist as quick as anybody, when it comes to trouble. All the way back from the AK you’ve told me what you’d do. Talk! Yeah, you can talk, Al. ”

“ Those men had a good start, and it’s pretty hard to identify gold coin. If they’re ever caught, it won’t be through anything developed around here.”
“What do yuh think about that feller throwin’ the messenger out of the car? ”