dent, had joined his confederates under the very thin pretense of
climbing the butte to come at them from behind. Barney now remembered
that he had been shot at from three different angles, and that the
burros had been killed by pistol shots fired at close range--presumably
by Casey Ryan.

It was like taming tigers to make Casey sit still and listen to all
this, but I had to do it so that he would know what to disprove.
Afterwards I had a talk with Joe and Paw, separately, and so got at the
whole truth. They bore no malice toward Casey and were perfectly
willing to see him out of the scrape. They were a sobered pair; Hank,
like a fool, had fired at the posse and was killed.

The next day came the Little Woman to the rescue. I told her the whole
story, not even omitting the burro, before she went to the jail to see
Casey. It was a pretty mess--take it all around--and I was secretly
somewhat doubtful of the outcome.

The Little Woman is game as women are made. She went with me to the
jail, and she met Casey with a whimsical smile. We found him sitting
on the side of his bunk with his legs stretched out and his feet
crossed, his good hand thrust in his trousers pocket and a cigarette in
one corner of his mouth, which turned sourly downward. He cocked an eye
up at us and rose, as the Little Woman had maybe taught him was proper.
But he did not say a word until the Little Woman walked up and kissed
him on both cheeks, turning his face this way and that with her hand
under his chin.

Casey grinned sheepishly then and hugged her with his good arm. I wish
you could have seen the look in his eyes when they dwelt on the Little
Woman!

"Casey Ryan, you need a shave. And your shirt collar is a disgrace to
a Piute," she drawled reprovingly.

Casey looked at me over her shoulder and grinned. He hadn't a word to
say for himself, which was unusual in Casey Ryan.

"It's lucky for you, Casey Ryan, that I remembered to go down to the
police station and get the proof that you were pinched twice on
Broadway just five days before Barney Oakes says he found you stalled
in the trail north of Barstow; and that you had been pinched pretty
regularly every whip-stitch for the last six months, and were a
familiar and unwelcome figure in downtown traffic and elsewhere.

"The sheriff who raided Black Butte admitted to me that it is utterly
impossible for the world to hold more than one Casey Ryan at a time;
and that he, for one, is