and
spiders and dust and passe corncobs and it's architecturally incorrect,
but if you and the marshal will hike off somewhere else and brag about
his badge, I'll buy it. I've got to sleep."

Speechless, Silas stared through the slats and continued to stare until
his stupefied face became a source of irritation. Kenny lost his
temper. He raised his voice.

"You petrified lout! I said I'd buy it."

The marshal, whose bravery seemed less in evidence than his badge,
summoned Silas to a point of safety. They conferred in a murmur.
Kenny viciously killed a spider and strained his ears in vain to hear
the purport of the consultation.

After an interval of heated debate Silas returned and with an air of
scepticism demanded twenty-five dollars. When Kenny, who never
questioned the price of anything, argued the point from motives of pure
antagonism, he called the marshal. The marshal was conservative. He
dallied with the need of coming. Kenny took advantage of a dispute
among the enemy to count out the bills in concessional disgust and
shove them through the slats. Silas, turning, brushed them with his
nose and leaped back in terror. Then his hand shot upwards in an
avaricious clutch. The amazed pair counted the bills and departed,
ever after confusing Kenny's identity with that of a famous lunatic
addicted to escapes.

Having detected all forms of degeneracy in the farmer's face Kenny
barricaded the door with a loose plank from the upper step, made sure
it would fall easily with a clatter, examined his revolver and had his
sleep out, thanks to the fact that the day proved cloudy. He awoke to
flies and disillusion. His head ached. His back ached. There was a
spider in his hat. He wanted water. He wanted a brook equipped with a
shower-bath and he wanted the luxury of eating what he chose. Never,
never would he eat cheese again unless the hand of famine gripped him.
Perhaps not then. The sum of his discontent plunged him into a black
temper in which he rehearsed the details of his morning's misadventure
with growing spleen and wished sincerely that Silas would appear again
and roar at him. And, then, gingerly descending the rickety steps,
Kenny remembered that the corncrib was his.

His . . . and not his. For he could not take it with him. It was a
tantalizing thought. Not that he wanted it. God forbid! Ever after
he would hate the sight of a corncrib. He simply resented the notion
of leaving it