The Orphan smiled and turned squarely around and walked away in the direction of his horse. Shields stared at his back and then rolled a cigarette and grinned: “By George!” he ejaculated at the confidence displayed by his companion, and he slowly followed.
After they had mounted in silence the sheriff suddenly turned and looked his companion squarely in the eyes and received a steady, frank look in return.
“What the devil made you ventilate them sheep herders that way?” he asked. “And go and drive all of them sheep over the bank?”
The Orphan frowned momentarily, but answered without reserve.
“Those sheep herders reckoned they’d get a reputation!” he answered. “And they would have gotten it, too, only I beat them on the draw. As for the idiotic muttons, they went plumb loco at the shooting and pushed each other over the bank. To hell with the herders–they only got what they was trying to hand me. But I’m a whole lot sorry about the sheep, although I can’t say I’m dead stuck on range-killers of any kind.”
The sheriff reflectively eyed his companion’s gun and remembered its celerity into getting into action, which persuaded him that The Orphan was telling the truth, and swept aside the last chance for fair warfare between the two for the day.
“Yes, it is too bad, all them innocent sheep drowned that way,” he slowly replied. “But they are shore awful skittish at times. Well, do we part?” he asked, suddenly holding out his hand.
“I reckon we do, Sheriff, and I’m blamed glad to have met you,” replied the outlaw as he shook hands with no uncertain grip. “Keep away from them Apaches, and so long.”
“Thanks, I will,” responded the arm of the law. “And I’m glad to have met you, too. So long!”