e, I
could see that it ended abruptly in a perpendicular cliff. As the
sides also were precipitous, it became necessary only to build a fence
across the entrance into the main canon to become possessed of a corral
completely closed in. Remembering the absolute invisibility of these
sunken canons until the rider is almost directly over them, and also
the extreme roughness and remoteness of the district, I could see that
the spot was admirably adapted to concealment.

"There's quite a yarn about the gang that held this hole," said Jed
Parker to me, when I had ridden back to him "I'll tell you about it
sometime."

We climbed the hill, descended on the Double R, built a fire in the
stove, dried out, and were happy. After a square meal--and a dry
one--I reminded Jed Parker of his promise, and so, sitting cross-legged
on his "so-gun" in the middle of the floor, he told us the following
yarn:

There's a good deal of romance been written about the "bad man," and
there's about the same amount of nonsense. The bad man is justa plain
murderer, neither more nor less. He never does get into a real, good,
plain, stand-up gunfight if he can possibly help it. His killin's are
done from behind a door, or when he's got his man dead to rights.
There's Sam Cook. You've all heard of him. He had nerve, of course,
and when he was backed into a corner he made good; he was sure sudden
death with a gun. But when he went for a man deliberate, he didn't
take no special chances. For a while he was marshal at Willets.
Pretty soon it was noted that there was a heap of cases of resisting
arrest, where Sam as marshal had to shoot, and that those cases almost
always happened to be his personal enemies. Of course, that might be
all right, but it looked suspicious. Then one day he killed poor old
Max Schmidt out behind his own saloon. Called him out and shot him in
the stomach. Said Max resisted arrest on a warrant for keepin' open
out of hours! That was a sweet warrant to take out in Willets, anyway!
Mrs. Schmidt always claimed that she saw that deal played, and that,
while they were talkin' perfectly peacable, Cook let drive from the hip
at about two yards' range. Anyway, we decided we needed another
marshal. Nothin' else was ever done, for the Vigilantes hadn't been
formed, and your individual and decent citizen doesn't care to be
marked by a gun of that stripe. Leastwise, unless he wants to go in
for bad-man methods and do a lit