riff. "If you like them,
you better hope they don't get him. That's hoping real hope."

"Wait till I get him!" the puncher repeated, grabbing for his Colt, being
too enraged to notice its absence. "I'll show him if he can tie a man up
an' leave him to choke to death, an' starve an' roast! I'll show him if
he can run this country like he owns it, shooting and abusing everybody
he wants to!"

"All right, Sonny," Shields laughed. "I'll shore wait till you gets him,
if I live long enough. But for your sake I shore hope you never finds him.
He wouldn't get any more reputation if he killed you, and your friends
would miss you."

"Don't yu let that worry yu!" retorted the enraged man. "I can take care
of myself in a mix-up, all right! An' I'm going to chase after my friends
an' take a hand in th' game, too, by God! He ain't going to leave me high
an' dry an' live to boast about it! But I suppose you reckon yu'll stop
me, hey?"

Shields raised both hands high in the air in denial. "I wouldn't think
of such a thing, not for the world," he cried, laughter shaking his big
frame. "You can go any place you please, only _I'd_ take a gun if I was
going after _him_," he added, eyeing the empty holster. "You know, you
_might_ need it," he was very grave in his use of the subjunctive.

The puncher slapped his hand to his thigh and then jumped high into the
air: "----! ----!" he shouted. "Stole my gun! Stole my gun!" Then he
paused suddenly and his face cleared. "But I've got something better'n a
Colt on my cayuse!" he cried as he leaped toward the edge of the canyon.
"An' I'll give him all it holds, too!" he threatened as he bumped and
slid to the bottom. The sheriff took more care and time in descending and
had just reached the trail when he heard a heart-rending yell, followed
by a sizzling stream of throbbing profanity.

"Where's my cayuse?" yelled the puncher as he rounded the corner of
the canyon wall on a peculiar lope and hop. "Where's my cayuse, yu
law-coyote?" he shouted, temporarily out of his senses from rage.
"Where's my cayuse!" dancing up to the sheriff and shaking both fists
under the laughter-convulsed face.

When the sheriff could speak, he leaned against the canyon wall for support
and broke the news.

"Why, Bill Howland said as how The Orphan was riding a Cross Bar-8
cayuse--dirty brown, with a white stocking on his near front foot. It
had a big scar on its neck, too."

"Th' d----d hoss thief!" began the pun