“I reckon I can spot mine,” said Bud. “I made them handles.”
The sheriff thanked them kindly and went back to his office, where he locked the guns in his desk. Then he went over to the Prospect Saloon, where he nailed up his other notice. Asher and his men didn’t take so kindly to the idea. Some of them were openly belligerent, and it seemed for a few moments that the sheriff had a tough job, but Asher took the matter out of their hands.
“I suppose this thing only applies to me and my men, eh?”
“You’re supposin’ wrong, Pete; I’ve already collected from the Tumblin’ K.”
“You’ve collected from Bud Hickman?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I jist wondered. But suppose we don’t give you our guns?”
The sheriff considered Pete calmly. Then:
“I’ve allus liked you, Asher. You’ve been a damn’ fool in lotsa ways, but you’re jist human like the rest of us. I’ve posted my notice, and I wrote it myself.”