“An' which way did it go?”
“Into the town pound.”
“What! Pond! What'n blazes is it doing with a pond? Couldn't it drink without getting in? Where's the pond?”
“Right here. It's eating its fool head off. I said pound, not pond. P-o-u-n-d; which means that it's pawned, in hock, for destroying the vegetation of Rawhide, an' disturbing the public peace.”
“Good joke on the piebald, all right; it was never locked up before,” laughed Fisher, trying to read a sign that faced away from him at a slight angle. “Get it out for me an' I'll disturb its peace. Sorry it put you to all that trouble,” he sympathized.
“Two dollars an' four bits, an' a dollar initiation fee—it wasn't never in the pound before. That makes three an' a half. Got the money with you?”
“What!” yelled Fisher, emerging from his trance. “What!” he yelled again.
“I ain't none deaf,” placidly replied the marshal. “Got the money, the three an' a half?”
“If you think yo're going to skin me outen three-fifty, one-fifty, or one measly cent, you need some medicine, an' I'll give it to you in pill form! You'd make a bum-looking angel, so get up an' hand over that cayuse, an' do it damned quick!”
“Three-fifty, an' two bits extry for feed. It'll cost you 'bout a dollar a day for feed. At the end of the week I'll sell that cayuse at auction to pay its bills if you don't cough up. Got the money?”