“No; it ain't stolen,” the bartender responded. He considered a moment and then made a suggestion. “Mebby the marshal can tell you where it is—he knows everything like that. Nobody can take a cayuse out of this town while the marshal is up an' well.”
“Lucky town, all right,” chirped Fisher. “An' where is the marshal?”
“You'll find him down the back way a couple of hundred yards; can't miss him. He allus hangs out there when there are cayuses in town.”
“Good for him! I'll chase right down an' see him; an' when I get that piebald——!”
The bartender watched him go around the corner and shook his head sadly. “Yes; hell of a lucky town,” he snorted bitterly, listening for the riot to begin.
The marshal still sat against the corral gate and stroked the Winchester in beatific contemplation. He had a fine job and he was happy. Suddenly leaning forward to look up the road, he smiled derisively and shifted the gun. A cow-puncher was coming his way rapidly, and on foot.
“Are you the marshal of this flea of a town?” politely inquired the newcomer.
“I am the same,” replied the man with the rifle. “Anything I kin do for you?”
“Yes; have you seen a piebald cayuse straying around loose-like, or anybody leading one—CG being the brand?”
“I did; it was straying.”