by clutches at the tent flap.  Then, he emitted a hiccough. “’Scuse m’,” he said thickly.  “I’m not well, thas ish not really well!  Will one of y’ pleash gimme a drink o’ water?  I been chasin’ those damn-cow-boy-outlawsh seven weeks sclean ’cross Shate Sline, I’m dead beat out.  Thas you, ain’t it Wayland?  Kindsh o’ you both come after me!  Saw y’ pash tha’ day y’ called t’ door!  Wife tol’ me to hide—­not risk m’ life, women ’re all thas way; skeary; skeary.  Well, I bin out ever shince y’ pashed!  I nearly got ’em, too!  I caught ’em right in here day after shnow slide had ’em cornered!  Gosh, bullets was pretty thick fur about half-an-hour; bu’ I cud’nt chross Shtate Line.”  Something in the old frontiersman’s widening eyes and glowering brows stopped the flow of valor; and Sheriff Flood dragged his exhausted virtue across to the log with some difficulty as to knees and elbows, got himself turned round and seated.

“Y’ been out huntin’ them seven weeks?”

“Yes, seven weeks!” His articulation had cleared a little.  “Please gimme m’ gun, Wayland!”

“Y’ saw them?  Y’re sure y’ saw them?”

“Saw them?” Sheriff Flood laughed in a thin little squeaking laugh.  “Gosh A’mighty, I—­I fought—­them single handed for a whole half day; I think I got one!  Least ways, there’s a powerful smell som’pin dead comin’ up below the Pass Trail.  It’s too steep to go down to see.  I wish I knew.”

“Ye wish ye knew?  Ye do—­do you?  ’Tis a wish bone instead of a back bone the likes of you have; and it was too steep to see?” Matthews megaphoned a laugh that echoed loud and long and scornful from the rocks.  “I saw a man who was no sheriff climb both up an’ down that place too steep for the likes o’ you to see; and he climbed to do more than see!  ‘Twas half an hour y’ fought them th’ first version?  Now ‘tis raised to half a day.  A’m thinkin’ y’ be applyin’ to th’ pension bureau for a hero’s triflin’ remembrance!  Hoh!  An’ y’ saw us pass did y’?  An’ y’r frowsy dyed-haired slattern wife told us y’ were away?  An’ ‘t will be a week y’ fought ’em when y’ tell it again; an’ y’ been huntin’ them seven weeks lyin’ sodden drunk in y’r tent wi’ a whiskey keg from th’ cellar o’ y’r white-vested friend?  Hoh?”

He caught the flabby body by the collar, spinning the dignity of the law round face down prone upon the log.  “A’ll not take my fist t’ y’ as A wud t’ a Man!  Ye dastard, drunken, poltroon, coward, whiskey sodden lout an’ scum o’ filth, an’,” each word was emphasized by the thud of the empty whiskey bottle wielded as a flail.

“Look out, sir,” warned Wayland, rolling from his horse in laughter, “you’ll hurt something, with that bottle.”