DOUGH OR DYNAMITE By W. C. TUTTLE Author of “Clean Crazy,” “Monkeying with Ancestors,” etc. Me and “Muley” Bowles and “Chuck” Warner are putting a saddle on a colt in the Cross J corral, when “Telescope” Tolliver enters the precincts of said ranch, and we gets our first glimpse of Archibald Ames. Archibald occupies a seat on the buckboard with Telescope, and they soon comes over and climbs on top of the corral fence. Archibald’s name fits him—in a way. The length of his first name indicates his girth and his last name his height. He’s one of them persons who you’d never invite to set down, ’cause he don’t seem to require no such posture. It takes him quite a long time to negotiate the top-pole of the corral, and when he does get up there he has to balance—his feet won’t reach the next pole. He’s wearing them dinky little pants, with the seat of a shoplifter and the knees of Lord Fauntleroy. His calves perspire in shiny leggings, and for a hat he wears a libel on the name of Stetson. Muley gives him a passing glance, yanks up another notch on the cinch, and grunts— “What’ll we do with it?” “Love it to death or render it out,” grunts Chuck. “Looks to me like one of them playthings for kids that yuh can’t tip over and make it stay down. Let’s give this colt a chance to breathe, while we peers a little closer at this attraction.” We ambles over and looks up at the critter’s soles. “Mister Ames,” orates Telescope, “I’m obliged to make yuh used to Muley Bowles. He’s the sylph-like critter in woolly chaps. That one with the sad, horse-faced features is Chuck Warner, the anti-George Washington of Yaller Rock County, and the other person down there is Henry Peck. They’re all harmless. “Bunch, this is Mister Archibald Ames, who is to be with us for a spell.” “I’m pleased to meet yuh,” smiles Archie. “You ought to be,” agrees Muley. “It ain’t often that we shows this much interest in a stranger. What seems to bring yuh hither?” “I brung him,” states Telescope. “Mister Ames is looking for local color. Sabe?” “What’s he done, and is he wanted by Federal, State or county?” asks Chuck, serious-like, wiggling his ears. Chuck can wiggle his ears just like a mule. “Done what?” grunts Telescope. “Chuck, you boob, don’t yuh know what local color is?” “I’ll bite,” grins Chuck. “Go ahead and spring it, Telescope.” Telescope clears his throat, rolls a cigaret and glares at Chuck, who glares right back, and wiggles his ears. “Look at them ears!” applauds Archibald. “I’d love to get a close-up of them.” “Mister,” reproves Chuck, “it ain’t seemly that a stranger should set on top of a corral and make remarks about the physical failings of a native son. Keep on at the pace you’ve started, and that spell that Telescope spoke about can be spelled in four letters: g-o-n-e. Sabe?”