"Holy Moses, Bill," he cried, "make these rascals clean up! M-mmm! That would drive a dog out of a tan-yard! What's the matter—is somebody dead?"
"Not yet," responded Bill Todhunter, "but they will be, if we don't git some trusty in there. Them fellers won't do nuthin'—an' I can't go in there and make 'em! You better appoint another alcalde."
"What's the matter with Pete?"
"His head is too sore—he won't be able to put up a fight for a month."
"Umm, and Mike is fixed worse yet—where's that crazy cowman, Pecos Dalhart?"
They found Pecos comfortably bestowed in the bunk of the end cell, philosophically smoking jail tobacco as a deodorizer.
"Say," said the sheriff, brusquely addressing him through the bars, "things are gittin' pretty rotten around here—somebody ought to make them Mexicans clean up. You put my Kangaroo Court out of business—how'd you like the job yourself?"
Pecos grunted contemptuously.
"Don't want it, hey? Well, you don't have to have it—I can get that big sheep-man down from the upper tanks."