covering Magpie with a rifle.

Mighty owns the only herd of goats in the county, and each and every one of them shaggy things is nitroglycerin on legs. I figures that Mighty has gone crazy from herding same, so when he turns sideways to me I slams a .45 slug into the loading-plate of his rifle.

That slug seems to cause consternation, being as it explodes some of Mighty’s magazine, and when a magazine full of 45-70s begin to heave and surge, it’s no place for a timid person.

Magpie turns a flip-flop into the cabin, and Mighty tries to dig himself into our chip-pile. I pilgrims out there and looks at Mighty.

“Why for the hands-up stuff, Mighty?” I asks. “You peeved?”

“You dang well know I am! You know why, too—blast you! I only seen one of you, but you two are pardners, and—I’ll see you in jail. I’m going to get the sheriff, me!”

“Plain crazy, Ike,” says Magpie sad-like. “Plain crazy.”

“Very plain,” I agrees.

“I’ll see you both in jail—betcher life!” wails Mighty. “Sure will.”

“Better see a eye doctor, Mighty,” advises Magpie. “You’re seeing things.”

“You’ll see something—dang you both!”

And Mighty fogs off down the trail.

“Poor old coot,” says Magpie. “Can’t help feeling sorry for him, Ike.”

“Uh-huh. He was a good old buggy but he’s done broke down.”

“No question about the buggy part, Ike.”

We fixed up our pot of beans and wondered where Ajax is. We ate supper and wondered some more about Ajax.

Then cometh Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims, knowed as “Scenery.” We always figured that Scenery was sheriff by default, being as two of Magpie’s friends forgot to vote, and Scenery won by one vote. He’s about knee-high to a he-human, and has darned near polished all the epitaph off his star in six months. He squeaks when he walks and squeaks when he 

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