letters, the ink is mud, and the pen's a
brush, but I reckon you can make tracks, all right," the host remarked as
he pushed a bench up to the table for his guest. "And if them punchers
don't make tracks for home purty lively, I'll salt their hides and peg
'em on the wall to cure," he grumbled, rummaging for a bottle and cup.
When he placed the tin cup on the table he grinned foolishly, for it
was plugged with a cork. "D----d outlaw!" he grunted.

"There," remarked the sheriff, fanning the note in the air. "That's done,
if it'll ever dry."

"Blow on it," suggested Sneed, and then smiled.

"Here, wait a minute," he said, stepping to the door, where he scooped up
a handful of sand. "Throw this on it--it can't get no muddier, anyhow."

Shields carefully folded the missive and tucked it in his hip pocket, and
then he looked up at the foreman.

"Sneed," he slowly began, "your punchers ain't never coming back."

"What!" yelled the foreman, leaping to his feet, and having visions of
his men being cut up by outlaws and Indians.

"Nope," replied Shields with an air of finality. "Bill Howland gave them
the most awful beating up that I ever saw men get, the whole four of
them, too! When he got through with them I took a hand and ordered them to
get out of the country, and I told them that if they ever came back I'd
shoot on sight, and I will."

Sneed's rage was pathetic, and was not induced by the beating his men
had received, nor by the sheriff's orders, but because it left him only
three men to work a ranch which needed twelve. As he listened to the
sheriff's story he paced back and forth in the small room and swore
luridly, kicking at everything in sight, except the sheriff. Then he
cooled down, spread his feet far apart and stared at Shields.

"Why didn't you kill 'em, the d----d fools?" he cried. "That's what
they deserved!" Then he paused. "But what am I going to do?" he asked.
"Where'll I get men, and what'll I do 'til I do get 'em?"

"I'll send Charley and half a dozen of the boys out from town to stay
with you 'til you get some others," replied the sheriff, walking toward
the door. "And you might tell the three that are left that I'll kill the
next man who tries that kind of work in this country. I'm getting good
and tired of it. So long."

Sneed didn't hear him, but sat with his head in his hands for several
minutes after the sheriff had gone, swearing fluently.

"Orphan h--l!" he yelled as he picked up the