ized jackass. Savee? I ain't
drunk. It's drink; see? Carney's rotgut. I tell you right here I'm
sober, but my legs ain't. Mebbe you're that fool-headed you don't
savee the difference."

Tresler restrained a further inclination to laugh. He had wasted too
much time already, and was anxious to get back to the ranch. He quite
realized that Joe knew what he was about, if his legs were
_hors-de-combat_, for, after delivering himself of this, his
unvarnished opinion, he wisely sought the safer vantage-ground of a
sitting posture.

Tresler grabbed at the blanket and pulled it off his shoulders.

"What's this?" he asked sharply.

Joe looked up, his little eyes sparkling with resentment.

"'Tain't yours, anyway," he said. Then he added with less anger, and
some uncertainty, "Guess I slept some down at the bushes. Durned plug
got busy 'stead o' waitin' around. The fool hoss ain't got no manners
anyways."

"Manners? Don't blither." Tresler seized him by the coat collar and
yanked him suddenly upon his feet. "Now, hand over that letter to
Sheriff Fyles. I've orders to deliver it myself."

Joe's twisted face turned upward with a comical expression of
perplexity. The moonlight caught his eyes, and he blinked. Then he
looked over at the horses, and, shaking his head solemnly, began to
fumble at his pockets.

"S-Sheriff F-Fyles," he answered doubtfully. He seemed to have
forgotten the very name. "F-Fyles?" he repeated again. "Letter? Say,
now, I wus kind o' wonderin' what I cum to Forks fer. Y' see I mostly
git around Forks fer Carney's rotgut. Course, ther' wus a letter. Jest
wher' did I put that now?" He became quite cheerful as he probed his
pockets.

Tresler waited until, swaying and even stumbling in the process, he
had turned out two pockets; then his impatience getting the better of
him, he proceeded to conduct the search himself.

"Now see here," he said firmly, "I'll go through your pockets. If
you've lost it, there'll be trouble for you when you get back. If
you'd only kept clear of that saloon you would have been all right."

"That's so," said Joe humbly, as he submitted to the other's search.

Tresler proceeded systematically. There was nothing but tobacco and
pipe in the outside pockets of his coat. His trousers revealed a
ten-cent piece and a dollar bill, which the choreman thanked him
profusely for finding, assuring him, regretfully, that he wouldn't
have left the saloon if he had known he had it. The ins