lake as he came up from the corral.

"Cook got 'em again?" he asked, elbowing his way into the house. "I told
you to keep liquor away from him."

"'Tain't liquor this time; it's th' kioodle," replied Docile Thomas as he
led the way back to the table. "Him an' th' dog don't mix extra well."

Blake swept aside the blanket and saw The Orphan standing by the window
and laughing. Turning, he disappeared into the gallery and soon returned
with a tin plate, a steel knife, a tin cup and the coffee pot.

"Sit down--good Lord, they would let a man starve," he said, roughly
clearing a place at the table for the new arrival. "I don't know how
you feel," he continued, "but I'm so all-fired hungry that I don't know
whether it's my back or stomach that hurts. Take some beef and throw
those potatoes down this way. Here, have some slush," filling The Orphan's
cup with coffee. "This ain't like the coffee the sheriff drinks, but it
is just a little bit better than nothing. You see, Cook's all right, only
he can't cook, never could and never will. But he's a whole lot better
than a sailor I once suffered under."

"What's the matter between you and Lightning, Lee?" asked Bud as the cook
passed by the table on his way to the shack.

"Wouldn't he drink yore slush? I allus said some dogs was smart," laughed
Jack Lawson.

Lee's smile was bland. "Scalpee th' dlog," he asserted as he disappeared.
"No dlamn good!" wafted from the gallery.

"Say, Humble," said Silent Allen in an aggrieved tone, "the beef will wag
its tail some night if you don't shoot that cur!"

"That's right!" endorsed Jack. "I'll shoot him for a dollar," he added
hopefully. "The boys will all chip in to make up the purse and it won't
cost you a cent, not even a cartridge."

"Anybody that don't like that setter can move," responded Humble with
decision. "He's a O. K. dog, that's what he is," he added loyally.

"Well, he's a setter, all right," laughed Silent. "He ain't good for
nothing else but to set around all day in the shade and chew hisself up."

"He ain't, ain't he?" cried Humble, delaying the morsel on his fork in
mid-air. "You ought to see him a-chasing coyotes!"

"I did see him chasing coyotes, and that's why I want you to have him
killed," replied Silent, grinning. "His feet are too big. Every time he
shoves his hind feet between the front ones he throws hisself."

"What did he ever catch except fleas and the mange?" asked Blake, winking
at The Orphan, wh