“Makin’ dead men is more your game,” broke in the wit of the assemblage.
A universal hiss attested that the crowd was anxious to hear the Texan gun-man out.
“But if you are goin’ to do me the honor of makin’ me sheriff of this here county and this here city of Appleton,” he continued, letting his eye rove down Appleton’s one street, “I’m here to state that law and order is goin’ to be maintained here at all costs. Right here I got to state that the only costs I’m referrin’ to is the price of the powder and lead for this here cannon of mine.”
The crowd broke in upon the speech with noisy appreciation, and many cries of “That’s the stuff, old boy!”
“I been hearin’ a tolerable pile about one Slim Malone,” went on the new sheriff.
“So have we,” broke in the irrepressible wit of the assemblage, only to be choked into silence by more serious-minded neighbors.
“Sure,” agreed the sheriff. “I reckon you’ve heard a lot too much about him. But I’m here to state that all this talk about Slim Malone has got to stop, and has got to stop sudden. I’m here to stop it.”
He hitched his holster a little forward again as he spoke and a deep silence fell upon the crowd.
“Fellow citizens,” he continued, spitting liberally over the side of the bar, “whatever gun-play is carried on around here in the future is to be done strictly by me, and all you men can consider yourselves under warning to leave your shootin’-irons at home, unless you want to use them to dig premature graves.”
This advice was received with an ironical chuckle of appreciation from the crowd.