‘You better go and ask Peter Morgan.’
Knowing that no one cared to discuss it with Peter Morgan, it was a good way to dismiss the argument.
Lem Sheeley, the sheriff, and Noah Evans, his deputy, riding through Mesa City, heard about the nester on the 6X6, and decided to investigate.
‘The nester part of it don’t interest me none, Noah,’ explained Lem. ‘But I’d kinda like to see what this here Lane looks like while he’s alive.’
Lem was almost too fat to be riding a horse. His face, surmounted by an unruly mop of corn-colored hair, was like a full moon. He was only thirty years of age; a native of the Black Horse country. Noah was tall, thin, with a hook-nose and watery eyes, which gave him the appearance of having a perpetual cold in his head. He wore shirts which were too small for him, and trousers that were too large. As Lem said, ‘Noah busts the elbows out of his shirts from grabbin’ at his pants.’
They rode in at the nester ranch, rather curious to see the man who defied the 6X6. It was not much of a ranch-house, being an old tumble-down affair on the edge of a swale which led down to Coyote Cañon. The fences were badly in need of repair, and the old sway-backed stable threatened at any time to collapse in the middle.
Years previous to this time some one had built the old place, ranged stock for a time, but finally gave it up. It had never been filed on as a homestead. Peter Morgan had often threatened to tear it down, burn it down, or otherwise destroy it, but had neglected to do so.
‘We better be a little careful,’ advised Noah. ‘You never stop to think you’re so damn fat that the worst shot in the world could hit yuh at four hundred yards with a twenty-two.’
‘Then you’d git my job,’ chuckled Lem, as they rode up to the ranch-house.
‘Don’t want it. Look at you. You’ve been sheriff only three years, and you weighed a hundred and fifty when yuh took office. Me and my indigestion would look like hell packin’ a hundred and thirty-five, wouldn’t—’