A
man standing before an open roll-top desk turned and regarded the
early-morning visitor. He was a small man, but of wiry build. His eyes
were gray, and he wore a small, brown mustache. He had a firm chin,
and his face was well tanned. He was holding a paper in his hands, and
the paper remained as steady as a rock in his grasp. His eyes bored
straight and unflinchingly into Rathburn's. He showed no surprise, no
concern. He made no move toward the pair of guns in the holsters of
the belt which reposed on top of his desk. He spoke first.

"Have you come to give yourself up, Rathburn?"

"Hardly that, sheriff," replied Rathburn cheerfully. "I arrived in
town this morning after most of the population had moved to the desert
and the country aroun' Imagination. I didn't think I was goin' to be
lucky enough to catch you in till I saw you arrive in that flivver.
Are you back for more recruits?"

The sheriff continued to hold the paper without moving.

"When you first started to talk, Rathburn, I thought maybe bravado had
brought you here to make a grand-stand play," he said coolly. "But I
see you're not as foolhardy as some might think. I always gave you
credit for being clever."

"Thanks, Sheriff Long," said Rathburn dryly. "There's a few
preliminaries we've got to get over, so----"

His gun leaped into his hand and instantly covered the official. He
stepped to the end of the desk, reached over and appropriated the belt
with the two guns with his left hand. He tossed the belt and weapons
to a vacant chair.

"Now, sheriff, I didn't come lookin' for a cell like you hinted; I
drifted in for a bit of information."

"This is headquarters for that article, especially if it's about
yourself," said Long, dropping the paper on his desk and sitting down
in the chair before it.

"What all have you got against me?" frowned Rathburn.

"Nothing much," said the sheriff with biting sarcasm; "just a few
killings, highway robbery, a bank stick-up, two or three gaming houses
looted, and a stage holdup. Enough to keep you in the Big House for
ninety-nine years and then hang you."

Rathburn nodded. "You're sure an ambitious man, sheriff. The killings
now--there was White and Moran, that you know about, an' a skunk over
in California named Carlisle, that you don't know about, I guess. I
couldn't get away from those shootings, sheriff."

"How about Simpson and Manley?" countered the official scornfully.

"Not on my list," said Rath