Man, we moved. A buckshot cut a groove in my boot heel, and Muley got one across his hip pocket before we got out of range, which was fast work with a gun. We dusts straight for town, when we almost runs over Wick Smith. He’s coming along, taking up most of the road, and me and him both tries to turn the same way. I picked myself up as quick as possible, and started on, when I heard Wick say— “Train in yet?” “Not yet,” I yells back and tries to catch up with the rest of my bunch, who seem to have met somebody and then went on. That somebody was Doughgod. I finds him setting in the middle of the road with the brim of his hat down around his neck and a fool look on his face. As I come up, he holds up the letter he’s hanging on to and he says to me: “Huh-Henry, she ain’t—ain’t coming here. She’s gug-got a bub-better job. She ain’t coming here, Henry.” “She shows a lot of sense,” says I, and I lopes on. I seen Telescope and Chuck and Muley gallop off the street and cut across the hills; so I puts on more speed and catches them. “Bill McFee is up there,” pants Telescope when we slows to a walk. “Dud-don’t forget we’re four John Does.” “That ain’t nothing to the word I’d use,” groans Muley. Well, we eventually got home. We collapses on the steps of the bunk-house, and I don’t care if I never move again. Pretty soon Telescope glances up at the door and grunts. Half-way up the door a piece of white paper has been pasted; so we creaks to a standing position and peruses same: I put your horses in the livery-stable last night, and, if you don’t want a big bill against them, you better get them right away. (signed) J. B. W. “——!” snorts Muley. “He—he just led them down to the stable, and that fool bartender thought he was taking them home.” “And we been walking away from them all this time,” groans Chuck. “Here comes Mike Pelly and the old man now,” says Telescope. We watches old J. B. Whittaker and Mike Pelly walking down from the ranch-house, talking serious-like. The old man turns at the barn, but Mike comes on down to us. “Howdy,” says Mike. “How’s everything, boys?” “Ain’t able to kick,” says Telescope. “How’s it with you?” “Tolable. See Doughgod in town?” “He was there the last we seen of him,” admits Muley. “Why?” “Going down to see him. Dang this trustee business, anyway. Nothing but trouble. Me and the old man have decided to accept that teacher that wrote to Doughgod, even if she is a female. Never mix into the school-teacher business, boys. She’s ——!” “She is,” agrees Muley, and we all nods. THE END [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 3, 1919 issue of _Adventure_ magazine.]