t in its owner's hand.

"Yore th' marshal of this place an' it's too good for me, but yore gain'
to pick up that tin lie," pointing at the badge, "an' yore goin' to do
it right now. Then yore gain' to get kicked out of that door, an' if
yu stops runnin' while I can see yu I'll fill yu so full of holes yu'll
catch cold. Yore a sumptious marshal, yu are! Yore th' snortingest ki-yi
that ever stuck its tail atween its laigs, yu are. Yu pop-eyed wall
flower, yu wants to peep to yoreself or some papoose'll slide yu over
th' Divide so fast yu won't have time to grease yore pants. Pick up that
license-tag an' let me see you perculate so lively that yore back'll
look like a ten-cent piece in five seconds. Flit!"

The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the badge.
Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the eager man
before him. He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand across his
fast-closing eyes. Cursing streaks of profanity, he staggered to the
door and landed in a heap in the street from the force of Hopalong's
kick. Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily down the block and
disappeared around a corner.

The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his
treat: "I've seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne--'member? How's yore friend
Red?" He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house
afforded.

"Well, shore 'nuff! Glad to see yu, Jimmy! What yu doin' away off here?"
Asked Hopalong, beginning to feel at home.

"Oh, jest filterin' round like. I'm awful glad to see yu--this yere wart
of a town needs siftin' out. It was only last week I was wishin' one of
yore bunch 'ud show up--that ornament yu jest buffaloed shore raised th'
devil in here, an' I wished I had somebody to prospect his anatomy for a
lead mine. But he's got a tough gang circulating with him. Ever hear of
Dutch Shannon or Blinky Neary? They's with him."

"Dutch Shannon? Nope," he replied.

"Bad eggs, an' not a-carin' how they gits square. Th' feller yu' salted
yesterday was a bosom friend of th' marshal's, an' he passed in his
chips last night."

"So?"

"Yep. Bought a bottle of ready-made nerve an' went to his own funeral.
Aristotle Smith was lookin' fer him up in Cheyenne last year. Aristotle
said he'd give a century fer five minutes' palaver with him, but he
shied th' town an' didn't come back. Yu know Aristotle, don't yu? He's
th' geezer that made fame up to Poison Knob three years ag