“You petrified lout!  I said I’d buy it.”

The marshal, whose bravery seemed less in evidence than his badge, summoned Silas to a point of safety.  They conferred in a murmur.  Kenny viciously killed a spider and strained his ears in vain to hear the purport of the consultation.

After an interval of heated debate Silas returned and with an air of scepticism demanded twenty-five dollars.  When Kenny, who never questioned the price of anything, argued the point from motives of pure antagonism, he called the marshal.  The marshal was conservative.  He dallied with the need of coming.  Kenny took advantage of a dispute among the enemy to count out the bills in concessional disgust and shove them through the slats.  Silas, turning, brushed them with his nose and leaped back in terror.  Then his hand shot upwards in an avaricious clutch.  The amazed pair counted the bills and departed, ever after confusing Kenny’s identity with that of a famous lunatic addicted to escapes.

Having detected all forms of degeneracy in the farmer’s face Kenny barricaded the door with a loose plank from the upper step, made sure it would fall easily with a clatter, examined his revolver and had his sleep out, thanks to the fact that the day proved cloudy.  He awoke to flies and disillusion.  His head ached.  His back ached.  There was a spider in his hat.  He wanted water.  He wanted a brook equipped with a shower-bath and he wanted the luxury of eating what he chose.  Never, never would he eat cheese again unless the hand of famine gripped him.  Perhaps not then.  The sum of his discontent plunged him into a black temper in which he rehearsed the details of his morning’s misadventure with growing spleen and wished sincerely that Silas would appear again and roar at him.  And, then, gingerly descending the rickety steps, Kenny remembered that the corncrib was his.

His . . . and not his.  For he could not take it with him.  It was a tantalizing thought.  Not that he wanted it.  God forbid!  Ever after he would hate the sight of a corncrib.  He simply resented the notion of leaving it behind for the vocal entertainment of Silas, who would likely get up again with the roosters and roar into it at “hoboes.”  Yes, the corncrib would revert to Silas, from whom he had merely rented it for one night at a most appalling price.  The improvidence of it shocked him.  Kenny retraced his footsteps in a blaze of indignation and made a bonfire on the corncrib floor to which in a reckless spasm of disgust he consigned the remainder of his supper.  The crazy structure caught at once, with a smell of cheese.

Five minutes later Kenny’s corncrib was a mass of flames and Silas had appeared at the end of the field roaring incomprehensible profanity.  Kenny, waiting, whistled softly with a defiant air of calm.  The corncrib was his.  He had a perfect right to burn it.  He meant to tell Silas this in a quiet voice, but lost his temper and thundered it instead.  Then in a fury he advanced to meet the disturber of his morning sleep and made him pay in full for the disillusion of his days upon the road.