"Some time to-night," he said, in a well-calculated tone of
resentment. "That's why I got you boys around now," he added
significantly.

"You mean----?" Diamond Jack nodded in the direction of the farm.

Beasley nodded.

"That old crow bait got back early this mornin'," he went on. "I was
waitin' on her. She guessed she hadn't a thing to say, an' I surely
was up agin a proposition. So I jest made out I was feelin' good
seein' her git back, an' told her I wa'an't lookin' for information
she didn't guess she was givin', and ther' wasn't no need fer her to
say a thing. She guessed that was so. After that I passed things by,
sayin' how some o' the boys hated sheriffs wuss'n rattlesnakes--an'
she laffed. Yes, sir, she laffed, an' it must have hurt her some.
Anyways she opened out at that, an' said, if any boys hated the sight
of sheriffs they'd better hunt their holes before sun-up. Guess she
didn't just use them words, but she give 'em that time limit. Say, if
I was the Padre I'd sooner have the devil on my trail than that
old--bunch o' marrow bones."

Slaney looked up from the bench on which he was spread out.

"Guess he'll have wuss'n her when Bob Richards gets around," he said
gloomily.

"D'you reckon they'll git him--with Buck around?" inquired Curly
anxiously.

"Buck! Tcha!" Beasley's dislike for the moment got the better of his
discretion. But he quickly realized his mistake, and proceeded to
twist his meaning. "It makes me mad. It makes me plumb crazed when I
think o' that bully feller, the Padre, bein' give dead away by the
folks at the farm. Buck? Psha'! Who's Buck agin a feller like Bob
Richards? Bob's the greatest sheriff ever stepped in Montana. He'll
twist Buck so he won't know rye whisky from sow-belly. Buck's grit,
elegant grit, but Bob--wal, I'd say he's the wisest guy west of
Chicago, when it comes to stringin' up a crook."

"I'm with you, boss," cried Diamond Jack, in a quick rage. "This farm
needs lookin' to to-night sure. We got to git in 'fore sheriffs git
around. They're playin' a low-down racket. Jonahs don't cut no ice
with me, but they're chasin' up glory agin the camp. That's how I read
it. Guess none of us is saints, anyways I don't seem to hear no wings
flappin'; but givin' folks up to the law is--low."

Abe Allinson grunted, and a general atmosphere of silent approval
prevailed. Beasley, whose eyes were watching every expression, pushed
the ball further along.

"Low?" he cried. "