But our work was a long, l-o-n-g way from bein' done. Hank kept sober just five hours. Then he got loose from Hairoil and made fer a thirst-parlour. And when Hairoil found him again, he was fuller'n a tick. "I'm blue as all git out about what's happened," says Hairoil. "But I couldn't help it; it was just rotten luck. And I hear that when the _Tarantula_ come out yesterday it had a hull column about that Walker, callin' him a brave ex-soldier and the next sheriff of Woodward County." "And just ten days 'fore 'lection!" chips in Bill Rawson. "Cupid, it's root hawg 'r die!" "That's what it is," I says. "Wal, I'll go git after Hank again." He was in Dutchy's, same as afore. But not so loaded, this time, and a blamed sight uglier. Minute he _seen_ me, his back was up! "Here, you snide puncher," he begun, "you tryin' to arrest _me?_ Wal, blankety blank blank," (fill it in the worst you can think of--he was beefin' somethin' _awful_) "I'll have you know that I ain't never 'lowed _no_ man t' put the bracelets on me." And his hand went down and begun feelin' fer the butt of a gun. "Look oudt!" whispers Dutchy. "You vill git shooted!" But I only just walked over and put a' arm 'round Hank. "Now, come on home," I says, like I meant it. "'Cause y' know, day after t'-morra another _Eye-Opener_ has _got_ to rise t' the top. Hank, think of Bergin!" He turned on me then, and give me such a push in the chest that I sit down on the floor--right suddent, too. Wal, that rubbed me the wrong way. And the next thing _he_ knowed, I had him by the back of the collar, and was a-draggin' him out. I was plumb wored out by the time I got him home, and so Chub, he stayed t' watch. I went back to the deepot. And I was still a-settin' there, feelin' lonesome, and kinda put out, too, when here come Buckshot Milliken towards me. "I think Hank oughta be 'shamed of hisself," he says, "fer the way he talks about you. Course, we know why he does it, and that it ain't true----" "What's he got t' say about me?" I ast, huffy. "He said you was a ornery hoodlum," answers Buckshot, "and a loafer, and that he's a-goin' t' roast you in his paper. He'd put Oklahomaw on to _you,_ he said." "Huh!" "And you been _such_ a good friend t' Hank," goes on Buckshot. "Wal, don't it go to show!" "If he puts on single _word_ about me in that paper of hisn," I says, gittin' on my ear good and plenty, "I'll just natu'ally take him acrosst my knee and give him a spankin'." "And he'll put enough slugs in you t' make a sinker," answers Buckshot. "Why, Cupid, Hank Shackleton can fight his weight in wildcats. _You go slow._" "But _he_ cain't shoot," I says. "He cain't _shoot!_" repeats Buckshot. "Why, I hear he was a reg'lar gun-fighter oncet, and so blamed fancy with his shootin' that he could drive a two-penny nail into a plank at twenty yards ev'ry bit as good as a carpenter." "Wal," I says, "I'll be blasted if that's got _me_ scairt any."