“Pete was there, and I reckon it hit him in a sore spot, cause he chips in with a remark, which didn’t set well with Bud. There wasn’t much said, but it took all of us to take their guns away. We didn’t want no killin’ in camp. Bud was reasonable. He says to Pete, ‘We’ll settle this in Mojave Wells.’” “Pete was agreeable. He says, ‘That suits me. We’ll make a truce until sundown, both agreein’ to keep away from her. When that sun goes down, all truce is off, and we shoot on sight.’” * * * * * Buck sliced another shaving, laid the stick aside and began whetting the blade on the counter of his left boot. “And one of them damn’ fools is goin’ to get killed,” added Ben. “It’s kinda hard to git straight grain stuff these days,” said the sheriff seriously. “I ’member when I was runnin’ a tradin’ post down Yuma way, I used to git the best danged boxwood for whittlin’. I don’t suppose it runs so good these days.” “Ben and Pete are both friends of yours,” said Ben thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. I like ’em both.” “A killin’ might start trouble. The boys has kinda took sides.” “I s’pose.” “Bud and Pete are both good shots.” “Yea-a-ah--purty good shots. Awful damn’ fools in lotsa ways, but good shots. Uh-hu-u-uh. Well, I’ve got to write me some signs, Ben. It’s two hours till sundown.” “I thought you’d like to know about it, Sheriff.” “Yeah, I do. Thank you kindly.” “You’re welcome.” Ben took his horse and headed for a saloon, while more cowboys came racing in, their horses covered with lather and dust. The sheriff watched the first contingent arrive. It was Bud Hickman and his gang from the Tumbling K. Bud was a likable looking cowboy, about twenty-five years of age, tall, lithe, swarthy as an Indian, with curling black hair and a white toothed smile. His crew was a wild riding lot of hard bitted punchers, ready for fun or fight at a moment’s notice. They noted that Pete Asher and the J88 boys had not arrived yet; so they all headed for the Desert Well Saloon, the biggest place of its kind in Mojave Wells. The sheriff stood on the edge of the sidewalk for a while, cogitating deeply. He had been sheriff of that particular county for nearly two terms, which meant that Buck Brady was pretty much of a man. Finally he went into his little office, and after a search he found an old paint brush and a few ounces of almost dried paint in a battered can. He kicked the ends out of a soap box, drew out the nails and sat down at his desk. Pete Asher and his crew rode in from the J88, tied their horses farther up the street and entered the Prospect Saloon. Asher was a heavily built, hard faced cowboy, about the same age as Bud Hickman. His hair was almost a neutral shade, his eyes deep set and blue. There was little to choose between his gang and the one which came in with Bud Hickman, and in numbers they were about equal.