en who were trying to
wrest the range away from local grazers. There followed the names of
six men concerned in the Rim Rock fray. Whose names they were, neither
Bat nor anyone else knew. Also Mr. Sheriff Flood was not described as
"a guy" nor pictured as reposing under his bed. He might have been a
walking arsenal of defence for the Valley. According to Mr. Bat
Brydges, Sheriff Flood was busy on the case and had wired the
authorities of the adjoining States to be on the look out for the
guilty parties. There followed a description of the guilty parties
photographed accurately from Mr. Bat Brydges's retina.

The third newspaper office was the least easy for the handy man's
tactics. The editor was an independent of the fiery order. Bat
avoided the editor and tackled a young reporter at the noon hour.

"What do you say to a spin in the 40 h. p. to-night?" he asked.

"What's on?"

The youth was reading an ink-smudged galley proof.

Bat sat down on the desk where he could read over the other's shoulder.
The proof reeked of "gore" and "shambles" and "heavily armed masked
men" and rifle shots thick as hail stones with a sheriff careening over
the Mesas at break neck speed slathered with zeal for law.

"What reforms are you jollying along now?" asked Bat.

"We'll jolly you fellows when this comes out."

"I've always said if I were his Satanic Majesty and wished to defeat
the goody-goodies, I wouldn't bother fighting 'em! I'd take an
afternoon nap and let them buck themselves by their lies and
bickerings."

The youth ran his eye down the galley proof.

"Who filled you up with this dope?" Brydges lowered his voice to an
altogether amused and very confidential key.

"What's the matter with it?"

"Matter? There's nothing right about it."

"Goes all the same. Got snap! It's good stuff."

"Stuffing, you mean," corrected the handy man. "Say, where ever did
you get it? Talk of stuff? Somebody has mistaken you for a spring
chicken."

"Got it straight. It's all right! Fellow from the English colony--"

"English Colony? Those Rookeries--Mother Carey's chickens. Do you
know what that Rookery gang is? A lot of gambling toughs, remittance
doughheads--"

"That doesn't spoil a ripping good story! I'm going to wire a column
to Chicago."

"No, you're not," contradicted Brydges. "That kind of thing hurts the
State more than ten thousand dollars will advertise it. You go over
your advertising colum