ver down on the table and moved toward the nail on which hung two
large keys.

"I'm just through tellin' you that I'm no longer a Ranger, but only a
private citizen."

Yorky was perplexed. He felt he was not getting the drift of this
conversation. "Well, an' I done said, fine, a young up 'n' comin' fellow
like you--"

"You've got no business to turn yore prisoner over to me, Yorky. I'm not
an officer."

"Oh, tha's all right. Anything you say, Tex."

"I'm goin' to give him my horse an' my guns an' tell him to hit the
trail."

The puzzled lost-dog look was uppermost on the wrinkled little face just
now. Yorky was clearly out of his depth. But of course Jack Roberts, the
best Ranger in the Panhandle, must know what he was about.

"Suits me if it does you, Tex," the saddler chirped.

"No, sir. You've got to make a fight to hold Dinsmore. He's wanted for
murder an' attempted robbery. You're here to see he doesn't get away."

"Make a fight! You mean ... fight you?"

"That's just what I mean. I'm out of reach of my gats. Unhook yore gun
if I make a move toward you."

Yorky scratched his bewildered head. This certainly did beat the Dutch.
He looked helplessly at this brown, lithe youth with the well-packed
muscles.

"I'll be doggoned if I know what's eatin' you, Tex. I ain't a-goin' to
fight you none a-tall."

"You bet you are! I've warned you because I don't want to take advantage
of you, since I've always had the run of the place. But you're jailer
here. You've _got_ to fight--or have everybody in town say you're
yellow."

A dull red burned into the cheeks of the little man. "I don't aim for to
let no man say that, Tex."

"That's the way to talk, Yorky. I've got no more right to take Dinsmore
away than any other man." Jack was playing with his lariat. He had made
a small loop at one end and with it was swinging graceful ellipses in
the air. "Don't you let me do it."

Yorky was nervous, but decided. "I ain't a-goin' to," he said, and the
revolver came to a businesslike position, its nose pointed straight for
Roberts.

The gyrations of the rope became more active and the figures it formed
more complex.

"Quit yore foolin', Tex, an' get down to cases. Dad-gum yore hide, a
fellow never can tell what you honest-to-God mean."

The rope snaked forward over the revolver and settled on the wrist of
the jailer. It tightened, quicker than the eye could follow. Jack
jerked the lariat sideways and plunged forwar