“I swore to do my duty,” he said slowly. “I raised my right hand and swore to uphold the law. It doesn’t mean that an officer can be lenient to _anybody_. I’ve been the best sheriff this county ever had, and I’ll keep on bein’ the best sheriff. The voters put their trust----” “I’ve heard all that, Jim. I’m going away now; going to be gone forever. I’ll never come back to the desert--to you. You’ve made a god of your job, Jim. Maybe they’ll put up a monument to you some day.” * * * * * The train whistled shrilly, as it came into view. The deputy came out and gave Mrs. Deming her ticket and her trunk check. “Thank you, Joe,” she said, holding out her hand. They shook hands, and she turned her back on her husband, watching the train come in. There were only a few people at the station. The engine clanked past and the train ground to a stop. The sheriff’s eyes were looking down the train, and without a word he walked away from his wife and strode down the platform. She looked curiously after him, but he did not look back. So this was his good-by. Stifling a sob she climbed up the steps of the coach and went inside, while the agent’s helper threw her trunk in the baggage car. Duty Deming walked down to a box-car and hunched on his heels, speaking to a man who clung to the rods beneath the car. “Come out of that,” he ordered gruffly. The man slowly edged off the rods and almost fell headlong. His legs were cramped from the uncomfortable position, and he was black with dirt and sand; his clothes driven full of it. “Stealin’ a ride, eh?” grunted the sheriff. The hobo straightened up, looked around through bloodshot eyes, which finally came back to the sheriff. The train was moving again. “What’s the big idea?” asked the hobo hoarsely. “What right have you to drag me off here? You’re just a hick sheriff and this is a little town. I was just travelin’.” “Stealin’ a ride,” said the sheriff grimly. He did not look up as the coaches passed him. “You know it’s agin the law, young man.” “That’s up to the railroad company. Or do you own this particular branch?” “No, I don’t own the railroad,” replied the sheriff harshly, “but I do represent the law around here.” “Represent it, eh?” * * * * * The hobo sighed deeply and looked at the passing coaches. The sheriff did not look at them. “Hot ridin’ under there,” said the hobo. “I was just heading out of this country. Tough riding, I’ll tell you; but they had all them box-cars sealed. Still, I could have made it to Levering.” “Well, yuh didn’t!” snapped the sheriff. “That’s true. Still, you haven’t any rock pile. All you can do is to put me in jail and feed me. That’s not a profitable thing. Better let me sit here in the shade, until the next train comes along.” “And let you steal another ride, eh?” “What do you care, as long as you don’t own the railroad?”