yore bronc needs a gallop to take the kinks out of his legs. Give
my regards to the Dinsmores an' tell 'em that Tascosa is no sort of
place for shorthorns or tinhorns."

"Better come an' give them regards yore own self."

"Mebbe I will, one of these glad mo'nin's. So long, Mr. Overstreet. Much
obliged to you an' Steve for not massacreein' me."

The ironic thanks of the Ranger were lost, for the killer from Colorado
was already swaggering out of the front door.

The old Confederate gave a whoop of delight. "I never did see yore
match, you doggoned old scalawag. You'd better go up into Mexico and
make Billy the Kid[6] eat out of yore hand. This tame country is no
place for you, Jack."

Roberts made his usual patient explanation. "It's the law. They can't
buck the whole Lone Star State. If he shot me, a whole passel of Rangers
would be on his back pretty soon. So he hits the trail instead." He
turned to Ridley, who had just come into the Silver Dollar. "Art, will
you keep cases on Overstreet an' see whether he leaves town right away?"

A quarter of an hour later Ridley was back with information.

"Overstreet's left town--lit out after Gurley."

The old Rebel grinned. "He won't catch him this side of the cap-rock."

[Footnote 6: Billy The Kid was the most notorious outlaw of the day. He
is said to have killed twenty-one men before Sheriff Pat Garrett killed
him at the age of twenty-one years.]

CHAPTER XXVI

FOR PROFESSIONAL SERVICES

Mr. Peter Dinsmore was of both an impulsive and obstinate disposition.
He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. Somewhere he had heard that
if a man desired his business well done, he must do it himself. Gurley
had proved a poor messenger. Peter would call upon Clint Wadley in
person and arrange an armistice.

He had another and a more urgent reason for getting to town promptly. A
jumping toothache had kept him awake all night. After he reached
Tascosa, Dinsmore was annoyed to find that Dr. Bridgman had ridden down
the river to look after the fractured leg of a mule-skinner.

"Isn't there any one else in this condemned burg can pull teeth?" he
demanded irritably of the bartender at the Bird Cage.

"There certainly is. Buttermilk Brown is a sure-enough dentist. He had
to take to bull-whackin' for to make a livin', but I reckon he's not
forgot how. You'll probably find him sleepin' off a hang-over at the
Four-Bit Corral."

This prophecy proved true, but Dinsmore was