By order of Buck Brady

W. C. TUTTLE
tells of a whittling sheriff and the feud of Mojave Wells
Buck Brady was always whittling. Thin shavings were an obsession with Buck. He would sit for hours, tilted back in a broken chair against the shady side of his little office, knees almost touching his chin, his long, thin face serious over the task of reducing a piece of soft pine to thin shavings.
Buck was the sheriff of Mojave Wells, and Mojave Wells was a heat and sand scoured, false fronted town in Road Runner Valley. The town was invisible from a distance, because even the painted signs on the business houses had been sand blasted until they were unreadable.
It was the end of the roundup in Road Runner Valley, and Buck knew that before night the town would be filled with thirsty cowboys, whose overall pockets were lined with money, and that when whisky met cowboy there might be plenty of work for the sheriff.
The first to arrive was Ben Dolan, a thin faced, gaunt sort of cowboy, astride a weary looking roan. Instead of heading for a saloon, Ben dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office, dropped his reins in the dirt and sat down beside the sheriff.
“Hyah, Buck.”
“Purty good,” drawled Buck squinting at his handiwork. “Whatcha know, Ben?”
“Not much.”
“In kinda early, ain’t you?”
“Yeah.”
Ben made a few marks in the sand with a lean forefinger.