“Oh hell!” said the other. “Where do you suppose he got the money for your college?” There was a pause; at last the marshal asked, defiantly, “Have you got what you want?” “Yes,” replied Hal. “Of course, I thought it all along, but it’s hard to convince other people. Old Peter’s not like most of these Western wolves, you know; he’s a pious high-church man.” The marshal smiled grimly. “So long as there are sheep,” said he, “there’ll be wolves in sheep’s clothing.” “I see,” said Hal. “And you leave them to feed on the lambs!” “If any lamb is silly enough to be fooled by that old worn-out skin,” remarked the marshal, “it deserves to be eaten.” Hal was studying the cynical face in front of him. “Cotton,” he said, “the shepherds are asleep; but the watch-dogs are barking. Haven’t you heard them?” “I hadn’t noticed.” “They are barking, barking! They are going to wake the shepherds! They are going to save the sheep!” “Religion don’t interest me,” said the other, looking bored; “your kind any more than Old Peter’s.” And suddenly Hal rose to his feet. “Cotton,” said he, “my place is with the flock! I’m going back to my job at the tipple!” And he started towards the door. SECTION 23. Jeff Cotton sprang forward. “Stop!” he cried. But Hal did not stop. “See here, young man!” cried the marshal. “Don’t carry this joke too far!” And he sprang to the door, just ahead of his prisoner. His hand moved toward his hip. “Draw your gun, Cotton,” said Hal; and, as the marshal obeyed, “Now I will stop. If I obey you in future, it will be at the point of your revolver.” The marshal’s mouth was dangerous-looking. “You may find that in this country there’s not so much between the drawing of a gun and the firing of it!” “I’ve explained my attitude,” replied Hal. “What are your orders?” “Come back and sit in this chair.” So Hal sat, and the marshal went to his desk, and took up the telephone. “Number seven,” he said, and waited a moment. “That you, Tom? Bring the car right away.” He hung up the receiver, and there followed a silence; finally Hal inquired, “I’m going to Pedro?” There was no reply. “I see I’ve got on your nerves,” said Hal. “But I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that you deprived me of my money last night. Also, I’ve an account with the company, some money coming to me for my work? What about that?” The marshal took up the receiver and gave another number. “Hello, Simpson. This is Cotton. Will you figure out the time of Joe Smith, buddy in Number Two, and send over the cash. Get his account at the store; and be quick, we’re waiting for it. He’s going out in a hurry.” Again he hung up the receiver. “Tell me,” said Hal, “did you take that trouble for Mike Sikoria?” There was silence. “Let me suggest that when you get my time, you give me part of it in scrip. I want it for a souvenir.” Still there was silence. “You know,” persisted the prisoner, tormentingly, “there’s a law against paying wages in scrip.”