Jimmy shook his head quickly.
“Not me. I’ve been warned to keep away. This is gettin’ to be a great place for warnings. I got a tip today that the Black Horse Saloon wouldn’t be healthy for me. I suppose the bartender has his orders to put ground glass in my liquor. They tell me that Lovely Lucas mopped off the back-bar with Kent Cutter the other day and busted forty dollars’ worth of glasses. This Western country is gettin’ tough. Well, you boys better trot along and get the sheriff.”
“I reckon we better,” nodded Slim.
“So long!”
“Want to send any message to your dad?” asked Clayton.
“Yeah. Tell him to mind his own business, and to give Slim Regan orders to the same effect.”
Slim turned and glared at Jimmy in the gathering gloom, but Jimmy didn’t see the glare. He was riding on, lifting his voice in song.
“He’s a tough pup, that feller,” growled Slim. “Why, he didn’t know I sent that telegram.”
“Not until you admitted it.”
Clayton turned in his saddle and listened. Jimmy’s voice floated back to them. He was singing “The Message of the Violet” from the “Prince of Pilsen.” They drew up their horses and listened.