Says he: 'Bub, let's us feed-I'm a-feelin' the need O' more substance than air in my jeans.' So of Slewfoot was there, all red freckles an' hair, An' we lined our insides with his grub. Says Bill, then: 'Show your gait-let's be pullin' our freight, Fer I'm rarin' to go,' says he, 'Bub.'"

Inside the bunk-house Bull rose to his feet. "That's damn good stuff, Hal," he said. The two had emptied the flask.

"Wait a minute," said the other, "I got another flask," and reached again beneath his bag.

"No," demurred the foreman, "I guess I got enough."

"Oh, hell, you ain't had none yet," insisted Colby.

The song of Texas Pete suffered many interruptions due to various arguments in which he felt compelled to take sides, but whenever there was a lull in the conversation he resumed his efforts to which no one paid any attention further than as they elicited an occasional word of banter.

The sweet singer never stopped except at the end of a stanza, and no matter how long the interruption, even though days might elapse, he always began again with the succeeding stanza, without the slightest hesitation or repetition. And so now, as Bull and Colby drank, he sang on.

"'Now we'll sashay next door to thet hard-Ticker store Where his nibs is most likely to be An' then you goes in first an' starts drowdin' your thirst; But a-keepin' your eyes peeled fer me.'"

Bull, the foreman, rose to his feet. He stood as steady as a rock, but Colby saw that he was drunk. After six months' of almost total abstinence he had just consumed considerably more than a pint of cheap and fiery whiskey in less than a half hour.

"Goin' to bed?" asked Colby.

"Bed, hell," replied the other. "I'm goin' to town-it's my night to howl. Comin'?"

"No," said Colby. "I think I'll turn in. Have a good time."

"I sure will." The foreman walked to his bunk and strapped his guns about his hips, resumed the single spur he had removed, tied a fresh black silk handkerchief about his neck, clapped his sombrero over his shock of straight black hair and strode out of the bunk-house.

"'Fer I wants you to see thet it's him draws on me So the jedge he cain't make me the goat.' So I heads fer that dump an' a queer little lump Starts a-wrigglin' aroun' in my throat."

"Say, where in hell's Bull goin' this time o' night?" Pete interrupted himself.

"He's headin' fer the horse c'rel," stated another.

"Acts like he was full," said a third. "Didje hear him hummin' a tune as he went out? That's always a sign with him. The stuff sort o' addles up his brains, like Pete's always is, an' makes him sing."

"Fer I wants you to know thet I likes thet there bo An' I'd seen more than one good one kilt, Fer you cain't never tell, leastways this side o' Hell, When there's shootin' whose blood will be spilt."

"There he goes now," said one of the men as the figure of a rider shown dimly in the starlight loped easily away toward the south, "an' he's goin' toward town."

"I wonder," said Texas Pete, "if he knows the old man is in town tonight."

"Jest inside o' the door with one foot on the floor An' the other hist up on the rail Stands a big, raw-boned guy with the orn'riest eye Thet I ever seen outen a jail."

"By gollies, I'm goin' after Bull. I doan b'lieve he-all knows thet the of man's in town," and leaping to his feet he walked off toward the horse corral, still singing:

"An' beside him a girl, thet sure looked like a pearl Thet the Bible guy cast before swine, Was a-pleadin' with him, her eyes teary an' dim, As I high-sign the bar-keep fer mine."

He caught up one of the loose horses in the corral, rammed a great, silver-mounted spade bit between its jaws, threw a heavy, carved saddle upon the animal's back, stepped one foot into a trailing, tapaderaed stirrup and was off in a swirl of dust. Texas Pete never rode other than in a swirl of dust, unless it happened to be raining, then he rode in a shower of mud.

His speed tonight was, therefore, not necessarily an indication of haste. He would have ridden at the same pace to either a funeral or a wedding, or home from either.

But any who knew Texas Pete could have guessed that he was in considerate haste, for he rode without his woolly, sheepskin chaps---one of the prides of his existence. If he had been in too much of a hurry to don them he must have been in a great hurry, indeed.

Texas Pete might be without a job, with not more than two-bits between himself and starvation, but he was never without a fine pair of sheepskin chaps, a silver-encrusted bit, a heavy bridle garnished with the same precious metal, an ornate saddle of hand carved leather and silver conchas, a Stetson, two good six-guns with their belt and holsters and a vivid silk neckerchief.

Possibly his pony cost no more than ten dollars, his boots were worn and his trousers blue denim overalls, greasy and frayed, yet Texas Pete otherwise was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. The rowels of his silver-inlaid Mexican spurs dragged the ground when he walked and the dumb-bells depending from their hubs tinkled merrily a gay accompaniment to his boyish heart beating beneath ragged underclothing.

Texas Pete galloped along the dusty road toward the small cattle-town that served the simple needs of that frontier community with its general store, its restaurant, its Chinese laundry, blacksmith shop, hotel, newspaper office and five saloons, and as he galloped he sang:

"Then the door swings agin an' my pal he steps in An' the light in his eye it was bad, An' the raw-boned guy wheels an' the girl there she squeals: 'O, fer gawd's sake don't shoot, Bill, it's dad!'"

A mile ahead of Pete another pony tore through the dust toward town-a blazed-face chestnut with two white hind feet--Blazes, the pride of the foreman's heart.

In the deep saddle, centaurlike, sat the horseman.

Hendersville tinkled softly in the quiet of early evening. Later, gaining momentum, it would speed up a bit under his own power. At present it reposed in the partial lethargy of digestive functionings-it was barely first drink time after supper. Its tinkling was the tinkling of spurs, chips and only very occasional glassware.

Suddenly its repose was shattered by a wild whoop from without, the clatter of swift hoofs and the rapid crack, crack, crack of a six-gun. Gum Smith, sheriff, rose from behind the faro layout and cocked an attentive ear.

Gum guided the destinies of the most lucrative thirst emporium in Hendersville. Being sheriff flattered his vanity and attracted business, but it had its drawbacks; the noises from without sounded like one of them and Gum was pained.

It was at times such as this that he almost wished that someone else was sheriff, but a quick glance at the shiny badge pinned to the left hand pocket of his vest reassured him quickly on that point and he glanced swiftly about the room at its other occupants and sighed in relief-there were at least a dozen husky young punchers there.

Across the street, in the office of the Hendersville Tribune, Elias Henders sat visiting with Ye Editor. As the shouting and the shots broke the quiet of the evening the two men looked up and outward toward the street.

"Boys will be boys," remarked the editor.

A bullet crashed through the glass at the top of the window. With a single movement the editor extinguished the lamp that burned on the desk before them, and both men, with a celerity that spoke habit, crouched quickly behind that piece of furniture.

"Sometimes they're damn careless, though," replied Elias Henders.

Down the road Texas Pete galloped and sang:

"For the thing she had saw was Bill reach for to draw When the guy she called dad drawed on Bill. In the door was my pal with his eyes on the gal An' his hand on his gun-standin' still."

From the distance ahead came, thinly, the sound of shots.

"By gollies!" exclaimed Texas Pete, "the darned son-of-a-gun !"

The men lolling about the barroom of Gum's Place-Liquors and Cigars-looked up at the sound of the shots and grinned. An instant later a horse's unshod hoofs pounded on the rough boards of the covered "porch" in front of Gum's Place, the swinging doors burst in and Blazes was brought to his haunches in the center of the floor with a wild whoop from his rider, who waved a smoking gun above his head.

Bull, the Bar Y foreman, let his gaze run quickly about the room. When his steel-grey eyes alighted upon the sheriff they remained there. Gum Smith appeared to wilt behind the faro table. He shook a wavering finger at the Bar Y foreman.

"Yo' all's undah arrest," he piped in a high, thin voice, and turning toward the men seated about the neighboring tables he pointed first at one and then at another.