“He ambled up to Laramie an' stuck his head in th' window of that joint by th' plaza an' hollered 'Fire,' an' they did. He was shore a good feller, all th' same,” answered the bartender. Hopalong laughed and started for the door. Turning around he looked at his miner friend and asked: “Comin' along? I'm goin' back now.” “Nope. Reckon I'll hit th' tiger a whirl. I'll stop in when I passes.” “All right. So long,” replied Hopalong, slipping out of the door and watching for trouble. There was no opposition shown him, and he arrived at his claim to find Jake in a heated argument with another of the gang. “Here he comes now,” he said as Hopalong walked up. “Tell him what yu said to me.” “I said yu made a mistake,” said the other, turning to the cowboy in a half apologetic manner. “An' what else?” Insisted Jake. “Why, ain't that all?” Asked the claim-jumper's friend in feigned surprise, wishing that he had kept quiet. “Well I reckons it is if yu can't back up yore words,” responded Jake in open contempt. Hopalong grabbed the intruder by the collar of his shirt and hauled him off the claim. “Yu keep off this, understand? I just kicked yore marshal out in th' street, an' I'll pay yu th' next call. If yu rambles in range of my guns yu'll shore get in th' way of a slug. Yu an' yore gang wants to browse on th' far side of th' range or yu'll miss a sunrise some mornin'. Scoot!” Hopalong turned to his companion and smiled. “What'd he say?” He asked genially. “Oh, he jest shot off his mouth a little. They's all no good. I've collided with lots of them all over this country. They can't face a good man an' keep their nerve. What'd yu say to th' marshal?” “I told him what he was an' threw him outen th' street,” replied Hopalong. “In about two weeks we'll have a new marshal an' he'll shore be a dandy.” “Yes? Why don't yu take th' job yoreself? We're with yu.” “Better man comin'. Ever hear of Buck Peters or Red Connors of th' Bar-20, Texas?” “Buck Peters? Seems to me I have. Did he punch fer th' Tin-Cup up in Montana, 'bout twenty years back?” “Shore! Him and Frenchy McAllister punched all over that country an' they used to paint Cheyenne, too,” replied Hopalong, eagerly. “I knows him, then. I used to know Frenchy, too. Are they comin' up here?” “Yes,” responded Hopalong, struggling with another can while waiting for the fire to catch up. “Better have some grub with me--don't like to eat alone,” invited the cowboy, the reaction of his late rage swinging him to the other extreme. When their tobacco had got well started at the close of the meal and content had taken possession of them Hopalong laughed quietly and finally spoke: “Did yu ever know Aristotle Smith when yu was up in Montana?”