Zeb rode on up the street to the one livery-stable. He was too hungry and tired to take off the saddles so he left the horses outside. “Unsaddle ’em and give ’em uh good feed,” he ordered the stable man, and then started back to the restaurant. He had almost reached the door when he saw Ricky come out, propelled by a big bearded person, who whirled his partner around roughly and started down the street, shoving him by the shoulder. Ricky was protesting loudly and already several people were walking curiously toward them. Zeb quickened his pace until he was walking at Ricky’s side. “What’s th’ trouble?” he asked. “I’m arrested, that’s all!” exclaimed Ricky, and Zeb, acting on the spur of the moment and without any preliminary windup, whirled and smashed the officer on the jaw with his right. The officer dropped like a rock. It was a clean knock-out. Zeb gave him one look and then grabbed Ricky by the arm. “Come on!” he yelled. “Run, you son-of-a-gun, run! We’ve got to git to them hosses quick!” He dashed off down the dusty street and Ricky pounded along behind. Several people on the street had seen the blow struck but they made no move to stop the pair. The suddenness of it all and the limp form of the officer lying there on the board sidewalk drew their attention more than did the two dust-covered figures racing for the livery-stable. “Pure bull luck!” panted Zeb. “Them hosses ain’t been unsaddled yet. “Git a-goin’!” he yelled as he climbed into the saddle and spurred the black around the corner. Ricky needed no urging. His big roan was right on the heels of the black when they hit the down grade toward Sweet Grass Valley. Not a word was spoken until they had put at least a dozen miles between them and Mill City. At the forks of the road, Zeb pulled up and turned in his saddle. “Which one do yuh reckon th’ posse will take in case they hit our trail, Ricky?” Ricky rolled a smoke and scratched his head foolishly. “I don’t reckon it makes much difference which one we take,” he remarked. “They ain’t goin’ to foller us far. Hittin’ uh deputy ain’t no hangin’ matter, Zeb.” “No, but hoss stealin’ is,” reminded Zeb seriously. “Who said anything about horse stealin’?” demanded Ricky. Zeb squinted his eyes and looked Ricky over carefully from heels to hat. “Say, Ricky, jist about what in the devil did that feller arrest yuh for?” “Hittin’ uh Chinaman,” chuckled Ricky, between puffs. “Hittin’ uh Chinaman!” exploded Zeb. “What fer?” “Zeb—” Ricky leaned over and put his hand on Zeb’s shoulder and a humorous light twinkled in his gray eyes—“I hadn’t no more than sat down in that restaurant until one uh them danged slant-eyed celestials comes over to me and says, ‘You likee some nice roast mutton?’” Zeb reached over and shook hands solemnly with Ricky and then turned his horse down the left-hand fork of the road. “Ricky,” he laughed, “‘let’s git a-goin’. This country is all wool but she ain’t wide enough fer me and you.” THE END