“They rode up careful, in open formation, with their guns ready. I set apart with my eye the one I opinionated to be the boss muck-raker of this law-and-order cavalry.
“‘Good-evening, gents,’ says I. ‘Won’t you light, and tie your horses?’
“The boss rides up close, and swings his gun over till the opening in it seems to cover my whole front elevation.
“‘Don’t you move your hands none,’ says he, ‘till you and me indulge in a adequate amount of necessary conversation.’
“‘I will not,’ says I. ‘I am no deaf-mute, and therefore will not have to disobey your injunctions in replying.’
“‘We are on the lookout,’ says he, ‘for Black Bill, the man that held up the Katy for $15,000 in May. We are searching the ranches and everybody on ’em. What is your name, and what do you do on this ranch?’
“‘Captain,’ says I, ‘Percival Saint Clair is my occupation, and my name is sheep-herder. I've got my flock of veals—no, muttons—penned here to-night. The shearers are coming to-morrow to give them a hair-cut—with baa-a-rum, I suppose.’
