There were more outfits to come, but they were not connected with the feud. Rud and his men were at the bar when the sheriff came in, and they greeted him noisily. He was carrying a box end and a hammer, and without any leave from the proprietor he proceeded to nail his sign to one of the walls. It read: FROM NOW ON EVERY MAN MUST TURN HIS GUN OVER TO MY OFFICE UNTIL HE IS READY TO LEAVE TOWN. BY ORDER OF --BUCK BRADY. * * * * * Some of the men laughed: some swore. Bud Hickman strode over to the sheriff and glared at him belligerently. “You tryin’ to kid somebody, Buck?” he asked. The sheriff looked steadily at Bud for several moments. “I ain’t in the habit of kiddin’ anybody, am I?” Bud flushed quickly, but he recognized the fact that Buck Brady would back up his sign. That was why Buck was their sheriff. “Kinda sudden, ain’tcha?” asked Bud. “No-o-o. I’ve been thinkin’ this out quite a while, Bud.” “Is this the idea?” queried Bud. “We all turn our guns over to you, and you turn ’em back when we’re ready to leave town?” “That’s what the sign says, Bud; and I wrote the sign.” Bud laughed and turned to his men. “It’s all right, boys. Shuck your guns. I reckon we can stand it, if the others can.” And then to the sheriff, “You might have a little trouble with Pete and his gang.” “I hope they’ll be reasonable.” The men put their guns on a poker table, and the sheriff picked them up, putting some in his pockets, some inside the waistband of his overalls. “You’ll have to remember your own guns, boys,” he said. “I reckon I can spot mine,” said Bud. “I made them handles.” * * * * * The sheriff thanked them kindly and went back to his office, where he locked the guns in his desk. Then he went over to the Prospect Saloon, where he nailed up his other notice. Asher and his men didn’t take so kindly to the idea. Some of them were openly belligerent, and it seemed for a few moments that the sheriff had a tough job, but Asher took the matter out of their hands. “I suppose this thing only applies to me and my men, eh?” “You’re supposin’ wrong, Pete; I’ve already collected from the Tumblin’ K.” “You’ve collected from Bud Hickman?” “Why not?” “Oh, I jist wondered. But suppose we don’t give you our guns?” The sheriff considered Pete calmly. Then: “I’ve allus liked you, Asher. You’ve been a damn’ fool in lotsa ways, but you’re jist human like the rest of us. I’ve posted my notice, and I wrote it myself.” “But jist suppose we refuse to give up our guns?” “That,” said the sheriff calmly, “would be jist too damn’ bad.” “Oh--” softly--“and if I should happen to want to leave town, you’d give me back my gun?” “Jist like the sign says, Pete.”