“You’re right, Bill,” gravely responded the sheriff. “We never could.”
As they entered the defile of the Backbone the sheriff suddenly remembered what Bill had told him and he stopped and dismounted.
“You keep right on, Bill,” he said. “I’m going up to hunt that fool puncher. Lord, but it’s a joke! This game is getting better every day–I’m getting so I sort of like to have The Orphan around. He’s shore original, all right.”
“He’s better than a marked deck in a darkened room,” laughed the driver. “He shore ought to be framed, or something like that.”
“You better go with them, Charley,” the sheriff said as his friend made a move at dismounting. “There ain’t no danger, but we won’t take no chances this time; we’ve got a precious coachful.”
“All right,” replied Charley as he wheeled toward the disappearing stage. “So long, Sheriff.”
The sheriff looked the wall over and then picked out a comparatively easy place and climbed to the top. As he drew himself over the edge he espied a pair of boots which showed from under a pile of débris, and he laughed heartily. At the laugh the feet began to kick vigorously, so affecting the sheriff that he had to stop a minute, for it was the most ludicrous sight he had ever looked upon.
Shields grabbed the boots and pulled, walking backward, and soon an enraged and trussed cow-puncher came into view. Slowly and carefully unrolling the rope from the unfortunate man, he coiled it methodically and slung it over his shoulder, and then assisted in loosening the gag.
The puncher was too stiff to rise and his liberator helped him to his feet and slapped and rubbed and chuckled and rubbed to start the blood in circulation. The gag had so affected the muscles of the puncher’s jaw that his mouth would not close without assistance and effort, and his words were not at all clear for that reason. His first word was a curse.
“’Ell!” he cried as he stamped and swung his arms. “’Ell! I’m asleep all o’er! ––! ’Ait till I get ’im! ––! ’Ait till I get ’im!”