The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the badge. Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the eager man before him. He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand across his fast-closing eyes. Cursing streaks of profanity, he staggered to the door and landed in a heap in the street from the force of Hopalong's kick. Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily down the block and disappeared around a corner. The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his treat: “I've seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne--'member? How's yore friend Red?” He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house afforded. “Well, shore 'nuff! Glad to see yu, Jimmy! What yu doin' away off here?” Asked Hopalong, beginning to feel at home. “Oh, jest filterin' round like. I'm awful glad to see yu--this yere wart of a town needs siftin' out. It was only last week I was wishin' one of yore bunch 'ud show up--that ornament yu jest buffaloed shore raised th' devil in here, an' I wished I had somebody to prospect his anatomy for a lead mine. But he's got a tough gang circulating with him. Ever hear of Dutch Shannon or Blinky Neary? They's with him.” “Dutch Shannon? Nope,” he replied. “Bad eggs, an' not a-carin' how they gits square. Th' feller yu' salted yesterday was a bosom friend of th' marshal's, an' he passed in his chips last night.” “So?” “Yep. Bought a bottle of ready-made nerve an' went to his own funeral. Aristotle Smith was lookin' fer him up in Cheyenne last year. Aristotle said he'd give a century fer five minutes' palaver with him, but he shied th' town an' didn't come back. Yu know Aristotle, don't yu? He's th' geezer that made fame up to Poison Knob three years ago. He used to go to town ridin' astride a log on th' lumber flume. Made four miles in six minutes with th' promise of a ruction when he stopped. Once when he was loaded he tried to ride back th' same way he came, an' th' first thing he knowed he was three miles farther from his supper an' a-slippin' down that valley like he wanted to go somewhere. He swum out at Potter's Dam an' it took him a day to walk back. But he didn't make that play again, because he was frequently sober, an' when he wasn't he'd only stand off an' swear at th' slide.” “That's Aristotle, all hunk. He's th' chap that used to play checkers with Deacon Rawlins. They used empty an' loaded shells for men, an' when they got a king they'd lay one on its side. Sometimes they'd jar th' board an' they'd all be kings an' then they'd have a cussin' match,” replied Hopalong, once more restored to good humor. “Why,” responded Jimmy, “he counted his wealth over twice by mistake an' shore raised a howl when he went to blow it--thought he's been robbed, an' laid behind th' houses fer a week lookin' fer th' feller that done it.” “I've heard of that cuss--he shore was th' limit. What become of him?” Asked the miner.