ws Peter's mostly nosin' around
when----"

"Thanks, I'll ride over."

Jim made as though to ride off. He understood the spiteful nature of
this little busybody, and was in no mood to listen to him now. But
Smallbones was something of a leech when he chose. He had seen the
whiskey bottle sticking out of Jim's coat pocket, and his Barnriff
thirst and curiosity were agog, for Jim was at no time a man to waste
money in drink.

"Say, givin' a party?" he sneered, pointing at the bottle.

"Yes, a party to a dead friend," replied Jim, with a wintry smile.
"It's inexpensive, less trouble, and there's more for myself. So
long."

A minute or two later Smallbones was serving Angel Gay in his store.
He had just sold him a butcher's knife of inferior quality at double
New York prices.

"Say," he observed, in the intimate manner of fellow villagers. "Who's
dead? I ain't heard nuthin'. Mebbe you'll know, your bizness kind o'
runnin' in that line."

"Ain't heerd tell," the butcher replied, with a solemn shake of his
large head. "An' most o' them come my way, too," he added, with
thoughtful pride. "Here, wait." He drew out a greasy note-book. "Y'see
I kind o' keep re-cords o' likely folks. Mebbe some o' the names'll
prompt you. Now ther's M. Wilkes, she's got a swellin', I don't
rightly know wher'--ther's folk talks of it bein' toomer--deadly
toomer. You ain't heerd if she's gone?" he inquired hopefully, while
he thumbed the pages of his book over.

"Nope. I ain't heerd," said Smallbones. "But I don't guess it's a
woman. Friend o' Jim Thorpe's."

"Ah," murmured the happy butcher, lifting his eyes to the ceiling for
inspiration. "That kind o' simplifies things. Jim Thorpe," he
pondered. "He ain't got a heap o' friends, as you might say. Ther's
Will Henderson," he turned over the pages of his book. "Um, healthy,
drinks a bit. Hasty temper, but good for fifty year 'less he gits into
a shootin' racket. 'Tain't him now?" he inquired looking up.

"No, 'tain't him. I see him this mornin'. He was soused some. Kind o'
had a heavy night. Wot about McLagan of the 'AZ's'?"

Again the butcher turned over the pages of his note-book. But finished
by shaking his head mournfully.

"No luck," he said. "McLagan's 'bout forty, never sick. Only chance
'accident on ranch.'"

The two men looked blankly at each other.

"Wot set you thinkin'?" inquired the butcher at last.

"Jest nuthin' o' consequence. Thorpe sed as he was givin' a party to