“An’, time we get there we won’t be able to see Sam Moore fer dust.”  Curly raised his glass and the cowpunchers joined in uproarious song: 

  “We’ll string him up to a cottonwood limb
  An’ dig his grave in under him,
  We’ll tromp down the clods, an’ we won’t give a damn
  ’Cause he’ll never kill another cow-man,
  Ah wi yi yippie i oo-o-!”

Without a break the Texan picked up the refrain, improvising words to fit the occasion: 

  “The sheriff’s name, it’s old Sam Moore,
  He’s standin’ down by the jail-house door
  With seventeen knives an’ a gatlin’ gun,
  But you bet your boots we’ll make him run
  Ah wi yi yippie i o-o-o-!”

With whoops of approbation and a deafening chorus of yowls and catcalls, the cowpunchers crowded through the door.  A moment later the bar-room was deserted and out in the street the night air resounded with the sound of snorting, trampling horses, the metallic jangle of spurs and bit chains, the creak of saddle-leather, and the terse, quick-worded observations of men mounting in the midst of the confusion of refractory horses.

“The sheriff’s name, it’s old Sam Moore!” roared a cowboy as he slammed into the saddle of a skew-ball black.

“Go git him!” howled another in exact imitation of Slim Maloney.

There was a thunder of hoofs as the whole crowd, headed by Tex and Curly swept down the street and across the flat toward the impromptu jail.

With a lighted lantern beside him, Sam Moore sat upon the strongly built unloading platform before the warehouse door, access to which was gained by means of a flight of six or eight plank steps at either end.  Up these steps rode a couple of cowpunchers while the rest drew up sharply at the very edge of the platform.  Hemmed in upon all sides the valiant deputy glanced fearfully into the faces of the horsemen.  “Wha—­What’s up, boys?  What’s ailin’ ye?” he managed to blurt out.

“Drop them guns an’ give over the key!” commanded someone.

“Sure—­sure, boys!  I hain’t aimin’ to hurt no one.  Yer all friends of mine an’ what you say goes with me.”

“Friends of yourn!” roared someone menacingly; “you’re a liar, Sam!  You ain’t never seen nary one of us before!  Git that!”

“Sure, sure thing, boys, I don’t know who ye be.  ’Tain’t none of my business.  I couldn’t name none of you.  You don’t need to be scairt of me.”

“You beat it, then, an’ lose yerself an’ don’t yer go stirrin’ up no rookus over to the dance, er we’ll dangle you a little, too.”

“Sure.  I’m a-goin’ now.  I——­”

“Fork over that key first!”

“Sure, Tex!  Here it is——­”

“Sure who!” rasped a voice close to the sheriff’s ear.

“I mean—­I said——­ Here’s the doggone key!  I was thinkin’ of a feller I know’d down to Wyomin’.  Tex—­Tex—­Smith, er some such of a name it was.  I mistrusted you was him, an’ mebbe you be fer all I know.  I don’t savvy none of you whatever.”