BALLAD OF SERGEANT TWIST

Cow Run was reached in the gathering dusk. Seen under winter conditions
the drab little town looked dreary and uninviting enough as the party
negotiated its main street. A frame-built hotel, a livery-stable, a
small church, a school-house, a line of false-fronted stores, and some
three-score dwellings failed to arouse in George an enthusiastic desire
to become a permanent resident of Cow Run.

The corpse they deposited temporarily in an empty shack situated in the
rear of the doctor's residence. From long usage this place had come to
be accepted as the common morgue of the district. After arranging
details with the coroner anent the morrow's inquest, and carefully
searching the dead man, the sergeant and his two subordinates repaired to
the livery-stable to put up their horses.

Nicholas Lee, the keeper of this establishment greeted them with wheezy
cordiality, apportioned to them stable-room and guaranteed especial care
of their horses. In appearance that worthy would have made a passable
understudy for the elder Weller, being red-faced, generous of girth and
short of breath. In addition to his regular calling he filled--or was
supposed to fill--the office of "town constable" and pound-keeper. A
sort of village "Dogberry." Incidentally it might be mentioned that he
also could have laid claim to be a "wictim of circumstances"; having but
recently contracted much the same sort of hymeneal bargain as did the
Dickensian character. The sympathy of Cow Run, individually and
collectively, was extended to him on this account.

From his somewhat garrulous recital of the day's events it was
satisfactorily evident to his hearers that wind of the murder had not
struck Cow Run as yet. For obvious reasons Slavin had enjoined strict
secrecy upon Lanky Jones, Lee's stable-hand.

"Ar!" wheezed Lee. "It's a good job yu' fellers is come. That ther
'Windy Moran's' bin raisin' hell over in the hotel th' las' two days. He
got to fightin' ag'in las' night with Larry Blake--over that hawss. Bob
Ingalls an' Chuck Reed an' th' bunch dragged 'em apart an' tol' Larry to
beat it back to his ranch--which he did. Windy--they got him to bed, an'
kep' him ther all night, as he swore he'd shoot Larry. He's still over
ther, nasty-drunk an' shootin' off what he's goin' t' do."

He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation, gloating deeply in his
throat: "Stirrin' times! ar! stirrin' times! . . . Now--'bo