ought, he directed his steps to the
Elephant Corral and saddled his horse. With motions of deft economy he
packed the provisions for travel, then swung to the saddle and cantered
down the street.

At the post-office corner he swung to the left for a block and
dismounted in front of a rather large dugout.

A wrinkled little man with a puzzled, lost-puppy look on his face sat on
a bench in front mending a set of broken harness.

"'Lo, Tex. How they comin'?" he asked.

"'Lo, Yorky. Hope I see you well," drawled the horseman, a whimsical
twitch of humor at the corner of his mouth. He was swinging his lariat
carelessly as cowboys do.

"Jes' tol'able. I got a misery in my left shoulder I'm a-goin' to try
some yerbs I done had recommended." Yorky was the kind of simple soul
who always told you just how he was when you asked him.

Roberts passed him and led the way into the house. "Come inside, Yorky,
I want to talk with you," he said.

The room into which the cowboy had passed was a harness shop. It was
littered with saddles and bridles and broken bits of traces. A workman's
bench and tools were in one corner of the shop. A door, bolted and
padlocked, led to a rear room.

Jack put down his rifle and his belt on a shelf and sat down on the
bench.

"Yore prisoner's in there all right," said the saddler with a jerk of
his thumb over his left shoulder.

Since no one else in town would take the place, Yorky had been
unanimously chosen jailer. He did not like the job, but it gave him an
official importance that flattered his vanity.

"He's not my prisoner any more, Yorky. He's yours. I quit being a Ranger
just twenty-five minutes ago."

"You don't say! Well, I reckon you done wise. A likely young fellow--"

"Where's yore six-shooter?" demanded Jack.

Yorky was a trifle surprised. "You're sittin' on it," he said,
indicating the work bench.

Roberts got up and stood aside. "Get it."

The lank jaw of the jailer hung dolefully. He rubbed its bristles with a
hand very unsure of itself.

"Now, you look a-hyer, Tex. I'm jailer, I am. I don't allow to go with
you to bring in no bad-man. Nothin' of that sort. It ain't in the
contract."

"I'm not askin' it. Get yore gat."

The little saddler got it, though with evident misgivings.

The brown, lean young man reseated himself on the bench. "I've come here
to get yore prisoner," he explained.

"Sure," brightened the jailer. "Wait till I get my keys." He put the
revol