"Now, you look a-hyer, Tex. I'm jailer, I am. I don't allow to go with you to bring in no bad-man. Nothin' of that sort. It ain't in the contract."
"I'm not askin' it. Get yore gat."
The little saddler got it, though with evident misgivings.
The brown, lean young man reseated himself on the bench. "I've come here to get yore prisoner," he explained.
"Sure," brightened the jailer. "Wait till I get my keys." He put the revolver down on the table and moved toward the nail on which hung two large keys.
"I'm just through tellin' you that I'm no longer a Ranger, but only a private citizen."
Yorky was perplexed. He felt he was not getting the drift of this conversation. "Well, an' I done said, fine, a young up 'n' comin' fellow like you—"
"You've got no business to turn yore prisoner over to me, Yorky. I'm not an officer."
"Oh, tha's all right. Anything you say, Tex."
"I'm goin' to give him my horse an' my guns an' tell him to hit the trail."