his
eyes. Then, he recollected the dignity of his office and got groggily
to his feet, steadying himself by clutches at the tent flap. Then, he
emitted a hiccough. "'Scuse m'," he said thickly. "I'm not well, thas
ish not really well! Will one of y' pleash gimme a drink o' water? I
been chasin' those damn-cow-boy-outlawsh seven weeks sclean 'cross
Shate Sline, I'm dead beat out. Thas you, ain't it Wayland? Kindsh o'
you both come after me! Saw y' pash tha' day y' called t' door! Wife
tol' me to hide--not risk m' life, women 're all thas way; skeary;
skeary. Well, I bin out ever shince y' pashed! I nearly got 'em, too!
I caught 'em right in here day after shnow slide had 'em cornered!
Gosh, bullets was pretty thick fur about half-an-hour; bu' I cud'nt
chross Shtate Line." Something in the old frontiersman's widening eyes
and glowering brows stopped the flow of valor; and Sheriff Flood
dragged his exhausted virtue across to the log with some difficulty as
to knees and elbows, got himself turned round and seated.

"Y' been out huntin' them seven weeks?"

"Yes, seven weeks!" His articulation had cleared a little. "Please
gimme m' gun, Wayland!"

"Y' saw them? Y're sure y' saw them?"

"Saw them?" Sheriff Flood laughed in a thin little squeaking laugh.
"Gosh A'mighty, I--I fought--them single handed for a whole half day; I
think I got one! Least ways, there's a powerful smell som'pin dead
comin' up below the Pass Trail. It's too steep to go down to see. I
wish I knew."

"Ye wish ye knew? Ye do--do you? 'Tis a wish bone instead of a back
bone the likes of you have; and it was too steep to see?" Matthews
megaphoned a laugh that echoed loud and long and scornful from the
rocks. "I saw a man who was no sheriff climb both up an' down that
place too steep for the likes o' you to see; and he climbed to do more
than see! 'Twas half an hour y' fought them th' first version? Now
'tis raised to half a day. A'm thinkin' y' be applyin' to th' pension
bureau for a hero's triflin' remembrance! Hoh! An' y' saw us pass did
y'? An' y'r frowsy dyed-haired slattern wife told us y' were away?
An' 't will be a week y' fought 'em when y' tell it again; an' y' been
huntin' them seven weeks lyin' sodden drunk in y'r tent wi' a whiskey
keg from th' cellar o' y'r white-vested friend? Hoh?"

He caught the flabby body by the collar, spinning the dignity of the
law round face down prone upon the log. "A'll not take m