“Orphan, you wait for me at the ford,” he said. “I’m going up to break the news to Sneed, and I’ll get paper and pencil while I’m there, and write a note to Blake. I’ll get back as quick as I can–so long.”
“So long, and good luck,” replied The Orphan, heartily shaking hands with his new friend.
Shields loped away and arrived at the ranch as Sneed was carrying water to the cook shack.
“Hullo, Sneed! Playing cook?” he said, pulling in to a stop.
“I’ll play on the cook if I ever get my hands on him,” replied Sneed, setting the pail down. “Well, what’s new? Seen Tex and the other three? I’ll play on them, too, when they gets home! Off playing hookey from work when we all of us aches from double shifts–oh, just wait till I sees ’em sneaking in to bed! Just wait!”
“You ought to give ’em all a good thrashing, they need it,” replied the sheriff, and then he asked: “Got any paper, and a pencil?” He wanted his needs supplied before he broke the news, for then he might not get them.
“Shore as you live I have,” answered the foreman, picking up the pail and starting toward the bunk-house. “Come in and wet the dust–it’s hot out here.”
“Let me have the paper first–I want to scrawl a note before I forget about it,” the sheriff responded as he seated himself on a bunk and looked critically about him at the bullet-riddled walls and pictures.
Sneed handed him an ink bottle and placed a piece of wrapping paper and a corroded pen on the table.
“That paper ain’t for love letters, the ink is mud, and the pen’s a brush, but I reckon you can make tracks, all right,” the host remarked as he pushed a bench up to the table for his guest. “And if them punchers don’t make tracks for home purty lively, I’ll salt their hides and peg ’em on the wall to cure,” he grumbled, rummaging for a bottle and cup. When he placed the tin cup on the table he grinned foolishly, for it was plugged with a cork. “D––d outlaw!” he grunted.