“All right; here’s mine. Take ’em off, boys. We don’t need ’em--now.” The sheriff looked over the guns as he deposited them about his person; he walked out, swinging the hammer in his hand. “Don’t that beat hell?” laughed Pete. “I’ll betcha somebody told him somethin’,” said a cowboy. “I don’t like the idea of a moth eaten old sidewinder takin’ my gun away,” complained a cowboy who was new to the country. “We’d ’a’ had some fun, if we’d refused.” “You’ve got a sweet idea of fun,” growled Pete. “That moth eaten old sidewinder is jist thirty-two years old, and if we hadn’t turned them guns over to him he’d jist about ruined the whole gang of us with his pet Winchester. When you see ‘By order of Buck Brady,’ you better read the upper part of it and act accordingly.” * * * * * All the cowboys went back to their drinking, and the sheriff was forgotten, but both Bud and Pete kept track of the sun. The sheriff, humped in his chair, still whittling, saw Pete come out, saunter to the hitching rack, where he could view the sun. It was still an hour high. Ben Dolan, fairly well filled with liquor, came over again and squatted on his heels beside the sheriff. Ben was as hard bitted as the rest of the cowboys, but he liked both Bud and Pete so well that he hated to see either of them wounded or killed. And Ben was wise enough to understand that both men would claim their guns at sundown. They saw Bud leave the Desert Well Saloon, walk halfway across the street, as if heading for a store, stop and look toward the west. He too was keeping cases on the sun. Then he turned and went back to the saloon. Ben made meaningless marks in the sand with a forefinger, while the sheriff whittled thoughtfully. “You shore collected a lot of guns, Sheriff.” “Yea-a-ah.” “Almost sundown.” The sheriff shut one eye and considered Ben. Then he looked toward both saloons, and went on whittling. “The boys are gettin’ nervous,” said Ben. “I notice.” Several cowboys were standing in front of the Prospect Saloon now, and one of them essayed a clog dance. His boots sounded loud on the old wooden sidewalk. Another beat time on a porch post with the end of a quirt. It was like the beating of a tomtom, and he kept it up for a time after the dancer had stopped. The beater was swarthy, with high cheek bones. Some of Bud’s gang came from the Desert Well and stood around in front of the building. One of them, a little drunker than the rest, started across the street toward the sheriff’s office, but the others stopped him and, after an argument, persuaded him to desist. “It’s kinda sultry,” said Ben, rubbing his forehead.