"Sure, sure thing, boys, I don't know who ye be. 'Tain't none of my business. I couldn't name none of you. You don't need to be scairt of me."
"You beat it, then, an' lose yerself an' don't yer go stirrin' up no rookus over to the dance, er we'll dangle you a little, too."
"Sure. I'm a-goin' now. I——"
"Fork over that key first!"
"Sure, Tex! Here it is——"
"Sure who!" rasped a voice close to the sheriff's ear.
"I mean—I said—— Here's the doggone key! I was thinkin' of a feller I know'd down to Wyomin'. Tex—Tex—Smith, er some such of a name it was. I mistrusted you was him, an' mebbe you be fer all I know. I don't savvy none of you whatever."
"Get a move on, Sam!"
"Me! I'm gone! An' you boys remember when 'lection time comes, to vote fer a sheriff that's got disgression an' common sense." And with ludicrous alacrity, the deputy scrambled from the platform and disappeared into the deep blackness of the lumber-yard.
The Texan fitted the key into the huge padlock and a moment later the door swung open and a dozen cowpunchers swarmed in.