“It’s one partic’lar mornin’, some two weeks after Silver Phil’s sentenced that a-way.  The marshal gent himse’f ain’t about, bein’ on some dooty over to Tucson.  Silver Phil is upsta’rs on the top floor of the ’doby with his gyards.  Which he’s hotter than a wildcat; the gyards an’ him has been havin’ a cussin’ match, an’ as Silver Phil outplays ’em talkin’, one of ’em’s done whacked him over the skelp with his gun.  The blood’s tricklin’ down Silver Phil’s fore’erd as he sits glowerin’.

“One of the gyards is loadin’ a ten-gauge Greener—­a whole mouthful of buckshot in each shell.  He’s grinnin’ at Silver Phil as he shoves the shells in the gun an’ slams her shet.

“‘Which I’m loadin’ that weepon for you,’ says the gyard, contemplatin’ Silver Phil derisive.

“‘You be, be you!’ replies Silver Phil, his eyes burnin’ with rage.  ‘Which you better look out a whole lot; you-all may get it yourse’f.’

“The gyard laughs ugly an’ exasperatin’ an’ puts the ten-gauge in a locker along with two or three Winchesters.  Then he turns the key on the firearms an’ goes caperin’ off to his feed.

“The other gyard, his compadre, is settin’ on a stool lookin’ out a window.  Mebby he’s considerin’ of his sins.  It would be more in his hand at this time if he thinks of Silver Phil.

“Silver Phil, who’s full of wrath at the taunts of the departed gyard, slips his hands free of the irons.  Most of the hide on his wrists comes with ’em, but Silver Phil don’t care.  The gyard’s back is to him as that gent sits gazin’ out an’ off along the dusty trail where it winds gray an’ hot toward Tucson.  Silver Phil organises, stealthy an’ cat-cautious; he’s out for the gyard’s gun as it hangs from his belt, the butt all temptin’ an’ su’gestive.

“As Silver Phil makes his first move the laig-locks clanks.  It ain’t louder than the jingle of a brace of copper centouse knockin’ together.  It’s enough, however; it strikes on the y’ear of that thoughtful gyard like the roar of a ’44.  He emerges from his reverie with a start; the play comes cl’ar as noonday to him in a moment.

“The gyard leaps, without even lookin’ ’round, to free himse’f from the clutch of Silver Phil.  Which he’s the splinter of a second too late.  Silver Phil makes a spring like a mountain lion, laig-locks an’ all, an’ grabs the gun.  As the gyard goes clatterin’ down sta’rs.  Silver Phil pumps two loads into him an’ curls him up at the foot.  Then Silver Phil hurls the six-shooter at him with a volley of mal’dictions.

“Without pausin’ a moment, Silver Phil grabs the stool an’ smashes to flinders the locker that holds the 10-gauge Greener.  He ain’t forgot none; an’ he’s fair locoed to get that partic’lar weepon for the other gyard.  He rips it from the rack an’ shows at the window as his prey comes runnin’ to the rescoo of his pard: 

“‘Oh, you!  Virg Sanders!’ yells Silver Phil.