ination.

"Now this feller's imagination is just about ripe. Usual, at the end
of about seven years, a sheepherder goes plumb dotty, and we either
have to shoot him, or send him to Leavenworth. Your Gee-Whiz man can
maybe take to cow punchin' and prosper, but not Willie. His long suit
is imaginin' things, from now on.

"Now, that feller is naturally pinin' to write this here particular
letter we've got on our minds. You watch Willie compose."

"Here you, Willie, come over here!" Curly called out.

The herder started in fright. Timid at best, he was all the more so
since the raid of the Carrizoso stock men. His legs trembled under
him, but he slowly approached in obedience.

"Willie," said Tom Osby, sternly, "I'm some hardened as a sinner my own
self, but the kind of way you do pains me. What made you tell that lie
about seein' the lady and that lawyer feller makin' love to each other,
on the back seat of the buckboard, behind the old man's back?"

"I _thought_ I seen 'em," pleaded Willie. "I--I _thought_ I heard
'em talkin'."

"Oh, sufferin' saints! Listen to that! You _thought_! Of course you
did. You and that Gee-Whiz friend of yours ought to turn yourselves
into a symposium and write for the papers. Now look here. Have you
got a copy of the 'Proud Earl's Revenge,' in your pocket?"

Willie tremulously felt in his clothing, and did produce a dog-eared
volume to somewhat that effect. Tom Osby turned over a few of the
pages thoughtfully, and then sat up with a happy smile. "There ain't
no trouble about that letter _now_!" said he.

"What--what--what do you want?" asked Willie. Then they told him.
Willie radiated happiness. He sat down beside them, his hands
trembling with joy and eagerness--conspirator number three for the
peace and dignity of Heart's Desire.

"Go get some paper, Curly," said Tom Osby, and Curly departed. Willie
remained wrapped in thought, his mind confused at this sudden
opportunity.

"It's all about Lancelot," said he.

"What brand did Lancelot ride under? Now, no foolin', Willie."

"Why--why--why," said Willie, "Lancelot, he's at a tournyment. Now, he
loves a beautiful queen."

"Shore he does! That goes. What's the queen's name?"

"Her name--her name--her name's Guinevere," replied Willie. "And the
proud king, he brooks it ill. The proud king's name is Arthur."

"Oh, no, it _ain't_!" said Tom Osby. "There ain't no man who's name
is _Arthur_ that has no sc