“You did real well, very fine, indeed,” replied the stranger, smiling with content.  “An’ don’t you worry about that outfit—­I’m going to get it back for you an’ a little bit more.  So, as long as you don’t lose nothing, you ain’t got no kick coming, have you?  An’ you ain’t got no interest in what I’m going to do.  Just sit tight an’ keep yore eyes an’ ears open at noon.  Meantime, if you want something to do to keep you busy, practise making speeches—­you ought to be ashamed to be punching cows an’ working for a living when you could use yore talents an’ get a lot of graft besides.  Any man who can say as much on nothing as you can ought to be in the Senate representing some railroad company or waterpower steal—­you don’t have to work there, just loaf an’ take easy money for cheating the people what put you there.  Now, don’t get mad—­I’m only stringing you:  I wouldn’t be mean enough to call you a senator.  To tell the truth, I think yo’re too honest to even think of such a thing.  But go ahead an’ practise—­I don’t mind it a bit.”

“Huh!  I couldn’t go to Congress,” laughed Fisher.  “I’d have to practise by getting elected mayor of some town an’ then go to the Legislature for the finishing touches.”

“Mr. Townsend would beat you out,” murmured the stranger, looking out of the window and wishing for noon.  He sauntered over to a chair, placed it where he could see his horse, and took things easy.  The bartender returned with several men at his heels, and all were grinning and joking.  They took up their places against the bar and indulged in frequent fits of chuckling, not letting their eyes stray from the man in the chair and the open street through the door, where the auction was to be held.  They regarded the stranger in the light of a would-be public benefactor, a martyr, who was to provide the town with a little excitement before he followed his predecessors into the grave.  Perhaps he would not be killed, perhaps he would shoot the pound-keeper and general public nuisance—­but ah, this was the stuff of which dreams were made:  the marshal would never be killed, he would thrive and outlive his fellow-townsmen, and die in bed at a ripe old age.

One of the citizens, dangling his legs from the card table, again looked closely at the man with the plan, and then turned to a companion beside him.  “I’ve seen that there feller som’ers, sometime,” he whispered.  “I know I have.  But I’ll be teetotally dod-blasted if I can place him.”

“Well, Jim; I never saw him afore, an’ I don’t know who he is,” replied the other, refilling his pipe with elaborate care, “but if he can kill Townsend to-day, I’ll be so plumb joyous I won’t know what to do with m’self.”

“I’m afraid he won’t, though,” remarked another, lolling back against the bar.  “The marshal was born to hang—­nobody can beat him on the draw.  But, anyhow, we’re going to see some fun.”

The first speaker, still straining his memory for a clue to the stranger’s identity, pulled out a handful of silver and placed it on the table.  “I’ll bet that he makes good,” he offered, but there were no takers.