From the car sprang a hale and vigorous man who advanced with hand extended.
“I kind o’ thought it was you, Sam Tracy,” said Mrs. Crump. “Thought I recognized that there car o’ yours. How’s the folks?”
“All fine. And you? But I needn’t ask—why, you grow younger every month——”
“See here! What ye doin’ over in this county, Sam? Why don’t ye get back to Bernalillo where ye belong?”
The sheriff waved his hand.
“Going to Santy Fé. I’m looking up a fellow who came this way from Albuquerque—a hobo and sneak thief name o’ Shea. Where ye been keepin’ yourself, ma’am? It don’t seem like the same old state not to see ye from time to time.”
“Sam Tracy,” observed Mrs. Crump with a look of severity, “I’ve knowed you more years than I care to reckon up. And you know me, I guess! Now, Sam, I sure hate to do it—but I got to. Stick up your hands, Sam, and do it damn sudden!”
The muzzle of her revolver poked the astounded sheriff in the stomach. For a moment he gazed into her shrewd blue eyes, then slowly elevated his hands.
“Are you crazy, ma’am?” he demanded.
She removed his holstered weapon, then lowered her own and shook her head.