"You are my friend, Saunders. I've had some that I depended on in a pinch, but you've done me a big favor to-night. I'll never git forgiveness for tryin' to shoot you—never—never in this world."
"That is all right." Saunders extended his hand, and the other clasped it firmly.
A man with a polished club tied to his wrist was striding toward them. It was the village marshal, Alf Floyd. Drake eyed him helplessly.
"Let me talk to him," Saunders said, under his breath. "You ride on home. Leave him to me. This must not get out."
"What's the trouble here?" the officer asked, arriving just as Drake rode away.
Saunders laughed carelessly as he reached for the bridle of his grazing horse. "It means that I got the best of Tom Drake. He bet me a dollar he could catch that train and get aboard. He would have done it, too, if I hadn't caught him around the waist at the last minute and swung him back. He didn't like it much, but he is all right now."
"Somebody said they heard a pistol-shot," the officer said.
"An accident," Saunders replied. "Drake dropped it—horse jerked it from his hand. I suppose we may have violated an ordinance in racing in town, and if so I'm willing to pay the fine. I'm responsible."
"There is an ordinance," the marshal said, "but I won't make a case out o' this."
"All right, Alf; thanks. How goes it?"