that in a womanless country life is not worth the living.  A few “hay ranches,” a few fields even of “sod corn,” now began to show here and there, index of a time to come, but for the most part this was yet a land of one sex and one occupation.  The cattle trade monopolized the scene.  The heaps of buffalo bones were now neglected.  The long-horned cattle of the white men were coming in to take the place of the curved-horned cattle of the Indians.  The curtain of the cattle drama of the West was now rung up full.

The sheriff finished the cleaning of his six-shooter and tossed the oiled rag into the drawer of the table where he kept the warrants.  He slipped the heavy weapon into the scabbard at his right leg and saw that the string held the scabbard firmly to his trouser-leg, so that he might draw the gun smoothly and without hindrance from its sheath.  He knew that the new bad man wore two guns, each adjusted in a similar manner; but it was always Bill Watson’s contention (while he was alive) that a man with one gun was as good as a man with two.  Sheriff Watson made no claim to being a two-handed shot.  He was a simple, unpretentious man; not a heroic figure as he stood, his weight resting on the sides of his feet, looking out of the window down the long and wind-swept street of Ellisville.

Gradually the gaze of the sheriff focused, becoming occupied with the figure of a horseman whose steady riding seemed to have a purpose other than that of merely showing his joy in living and riding.  This rider passed other riders without pausing.  He came up the street at a gallop until opposite the office door, where he jerked up his horse sharply and sprang from the saddle.  As he came into the room he pulled off his hat and mopped his face as far as he could reach with the corner of his neckerchief.

“Mornin’, Bill,” he said.

“Mornin’, Curly,” said the sheriff pleasantly.  “Lookin’ for a doctor?  You’re ridin’ perty fast.”

“Nope,” said Curly.  “Reckon it’s a shade too late fer a doctor.”

The sheriff was gravely silent.  After a while he said, quietly:” 

“Any trouble?”

“Yep.  Plenty.”

“Who?”

“Why, it’s Cal Greathouse.  You know Cal.  This is his second drive.  His cows is down on the Rattlesnake bottoms now.  He was camped there two weeks, not fur from my place.  Last week he goes off west a ways, a-lookin’ fer some winter range that won’t be so crowded.  He goes alone.  Now, to-day his horse comes back, draggin’ his lariat.  We ‘lowed we better come tell you.  O’ course, they ain’t no horse gettin’ away f’m Cal Greathouse, not if he’s alive.”

The sheriff was silent for some time, looking at his visitor straight with his oxlike eyes.  “Did Cal have much money with him?” he asked, finally.

“Not so awful much, near’s the boys can tell.  Mebbe a few hundred, fer spendin’ money, like.”