can't kill scandal with gunplay. The
gel's too young, in one way, an' not young enough in another, to be
stayin' on at the Three Star. You oughter have sense enough to know
that. Ef one of you was married, or had a wife that 'ud stay with you,
it 'ud be different. Or if there was a woman housekeeper to the outfit."

"That ain't possible," put in Mormon. "I told you I'm a woman-dodger.
Sandy here is woman-shy. Sam is wedded to his mouth-organ."

The flivver horn squawked outside. Miranda pointed her finger at Sandy.

"There's chores waitin' fo' me. I didn't come off at daylight jest to be
spyin', whatever you men may think. You either got to git a grown woman
here or send the gel away, fo' her own good, 'fore the talk gits so
it'll shadder her life. I ain't married. I don't expect to be, but I
aimed to be, once, 'cept for a dirty bit of gossip that started in my
home town 'thout a word of truth in it. Now, I've said my say, you-all
talk it over."

Sandy went to the door with her, helped her into the machine. It
shudderingly gathered itself together and wheezed off; he came back with
his face serious.

"She's right," he said.

"Mormon," said Sam, "it's up to you. Advertise fo' Number Three to come
back--all is forgiven--or git you a divo'ce, it's plumb easy oveh in the
nex' state--an' pick a good one this time."

"We got to send her away," said Sandy. "Me, I'm goin' into Herefo'd
to-night. I aim to git a cook-book, interview Jim Plimsoll an' then
bu'st his bank. One of you come erlong. Match fo' it."

"Bu'st the bank what with?" asked Sam.

Sandy produced the ten-dollar luck-piece and held it up.

"This. Mormon, choose yore side."

"Heads."

Sandy flipped the coin. It fell with a golden ring on the floor.
"Tails," said Sandy inspecting it. "You come, Sam. Staht afteh noon. Oil
up yore gun."

"I knowed I'd lose," said Mormon dolefully. "Dang my luck anyway."

It was a little after seven o'clock when Sandy and Sam walked out of the
Cactus Restaurant, leaving their ponies hitched to the rail in front.
They strolled down the main street of Hereford across the railroad
tracks to where the "Brisket," as the cowboys styled the little town's
tenderloin, huddled its collection of shacks, with their false fronts
faced to the dusty street and their rear entrances, still cumbered with
cases of empty bottles and idle kegs, turned to the almost dry bed of
the creek. The signs of ante-prohibition days, blistered and fa