"How's that?" inquired Creede, scratching his head doubtfully. Then, divining the abysmal ignorance from which the judge was speaking, he answered, with an honest twinkle in his eye: "Oh, that's all right, Judge. We always try to do what's right--and we're strong for the law, when they is any." "I'm afraid there hasn't been much law up here in the past, has there?" inquired Mr. Shafer tactfully. "Well, not so's you'd notice it," replied the big cowboy enigmatically. "But say, Judge," he continued, making a point at the old gentleman's linen duster, "excuse _me_, but that yaller letter stickin' out of your pocket looks kinder familiar. It's for me, ain't it? Um, thanks; this detective outfit back in St. Louie is tryin' to make me out a millionaire, or somethin' like that, and I'm naturally interested." He tore the letter open, extracted a second epistle from its depths and read it over gravely. "Well, boys," he observed, grinning cheerfully as he tucked it away in his shaps, "my luck always did run in bunches--_I'm rich_!" He strode briskly over to the corral, caught up a fresh horse and, riding back to the camp, began to go through his war bag hurriedly. He was in the midst of a feverish packing, throwing away socks and grabbing up shirts, when a gay laugh from the house attracted his attention. He listened for a moment abstractedly; then he flew at his work once more, dumping everything he had out on his bed and stuffing what he needed back into his war bag; but when there came a second peal of laughter, he stopped and craned his neck. "Well--I'll--be--dam'd!" he muttered, as he recognized the voice, and then he flew at his work again, manhandling everything in sight. He was just roping his enormous bed, preparatory to depositing it in the bunk-house, when Kitty Bonnair stepped out of the house and came toward him, walking like a boy in her dainty riding suit. There was a great noise from the branding pen and as she approached he seemed very intent upon his work, wrestling with his bundle as if he were hog-tying a bull and using language none too choice the while, but Kitty waited patiently until he looked up. "Why, howdy do, Mr. Creede," she cried, smiling radiantly. "I got a new idea for my play just from seeing you do that work." The cowboy regarded her sombrely, took a nip or two with his rope's end, jerked the cords tight, and sat down deliberately on the bundle. "That's good," he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. "How's tricks?" There was a shadow of irony in his voice but Kitty passed it by. "Fine and dandy," she answered. "How are you coming?" "Oh, pretty good," he conceded, rising up and surveying the battlefield, "and I reckon I ain't forgot nothin'," he added meaningly. He kicked his blanket roll, tied his war bag behind the saddle, and hitched up his overalls regally. "Sorry I ain't goin' to see more of you," he observed, slipping his six-shooter into his shaps, "but--"