“Tell us all about it, little one,” begs Muley, resting his fat chin on his hands, and squinting at Telescope. “Sing us a song of a locoed man, Who got stuck on your face and shape— A form that was built by accident, And the face of a Jungle ape. Sing us a song of a keeper bold, Who went sound asleep one day, A keeper who’s going to show up soon, And lead little Archie away.” “I’ll tell yuh nothing!” yelps Telescope. “You fellers are just plumb ignorant.” “Ain’t it true?” nods Chuck. “I’d take a job, too, if I was begged.” “You!” snorts Telescope. “Haw, haw, haw! Mister Ames told me that if he wanted something for the public to laugh at he’d sure hire you. No, Chuckie. This is a moving picture—not a sideshow.” “Here’s the idea,” continues Telescope. “Mister Ames wants something real. He wants real punchers and——” “Ninety-eight cents in Chicago,” nods Chuck. “I seen in a mail-order catalog where yuh could get good ones for——” “He wants a real hold-up,” states Telescope. “He wants a stage held up, and he don’t want no fake. Sabe? Somehow he’s got the idea that I could do it artistic-like.” “Your experience will help yuh out,” nods Chuck. “There was a hold-up over in Mexican Cañon once, and the feller——” “Sufficient, Chuck!” snorts Muley, and Chuck winks at me. “Well, of course it wasn’t done by one man,” murmurs Chuck. “One of the posse shot the horns off a animile and made a muley. Correct me if I appear to be wrong,” “You stand corrected,” states Muley. “Desist from historical romance, or I’ll remember one Summer afternoon down in Cottonwood, when a certain man went into a bank, and ——” “I accepts the correction,” admits Chuck, playing a red queen on a red king, and Telescope continues: “You fellers keep this under your hats. Sabe? Along about Wednesday afternoon I’m going to hold up the stage from Piperock. Of course after it’s over I’ll return everything, and all the while this picture will be taken. He wants to advertise it as a real hold-up, and she will be all that.” “Going south, as she drags out of Hell Gate Crossing,” orates Chuck. “That’s the designated place,” grins Telescope. “You must ’a’ been studying the situation, Chuck.” “Suppose somebody takes a shot at yuh?” I suggests. “Art Miller ain’t no suckling infant, and if there’s a shipment from the Golden Cross aboard there might be a guard.” “Yuh never can tell about them shipments,” agrees Chuck. “I’ve tried several times to find out.” “No wonder yuh know a good place,” laughs Telescope. “Never mind, there ain’t going to be no shooting. I’ll have ’em buffaloed. My shells will all be blanks. If I makes good in this I cinches a job with Archibald Ames, and it’s good-by to the Cross J. No more will Mister Tolliver ride the hills and smell of burnt hair and corrals. Poor, eh? I’ll be eating breakfast in bed while Chuck Warner is out chopping holes in the ice so the doggies can drink.”