“That so, doctor? And it nothing but a nice clean flesh-wound! Sho! I’ve a deal more confidence in you than that. Ready, Del?” “It’s at your risk then, Mr. Collins.” “Sure.” The sheriff smiled. “I’m living at my own risk, doctor. But I’d a heap rather be alive than daid, and take all the risk that’s coming, too. But since you make a point of it, I’ll do most of my walking on a bronco’s back.” They found Mr. Hardman just emerging from the stable with a saddle-pony when they rode into the corral. At a word from Collins, Hawkes took the precaution to close the corral gate. The fellow held a wary position on the farther side of his horse, the while he ripped out a raucous string of invectives. “Real fluent, ain’t he?” murmured Hawkes, as he began to circle round to flank the enemy. “Stay right there, Del Hawkes. Move, you redhaided son of a brand blotter, and I’ll pump holes in you!” A rifle leveled across the saddle emphasized his sentiments. “Plumb hospitable,” grinned Hawkes, coming promptly to a halt. Collins rode slowly forward, his hand on the butt of the revolver that still lay in its scabbard. The Winchester covered every step of his progress, but he neither hastened nor faltered, though he knew his life hung in the balance. If his steely blue eyes had released for one moment the wolfish ones of the villain, if he had hesitated or hurried, he would have been shot through the head. But the eyes of a brave man are the king of weapons. Hardman’s fingers itched at the trigger he had not the courage to pull. For such an unflawed nerve he knew himself no match. “Keep back,” he screamed. “Damn it, another step and I’ll fire!” But he did not fire, though Collins rode up to him, dismounted, and threw the end of the rifle carelessly from him. “Don’t be rash, Hardman. I’ve come here to put you under arrest for robbing the T. P. Limited, and I’m going to do it.” The indolent, contemptuous drawl, so free of even a suggestion of the strain the sheriff must have been under, completed his victory. The fellow lowered his rifle with a peevish oath. “You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, Mr. Collins.” “I guess not,” retorted the sheriff easily. “Del, you better relieve Mr. Hardman of his ballast. He ain’t really fit to be trusted with a weapon, and him so excitable. That Winchester came awful near going off, friend. You don’t want to be so careless when you’re playing with firearms. It’s a habit that’s liable to get you into trouble.” Collins had not shaved death so closely without feeling a reaction of boyish gaiety at his adventure. It bubbled up in his talk like effervescing soda. “Now we’ll go into a committee of the whole, gentlemen, adjourn to the stable, and have a little game of ‘Button, button, who’s got the button?’ You first, Mr. Hardman. If you’ll kindly shuck your coat and vest, we’ll begin button-hunting.” They diligently searched the miscreant without hiding anything pertaining to “J. H. begins hear.”