The coroner shot a shrewd eye at Wyoming's chief executive. It was not politically harmonious to be reminded that but for his wife's liquor a number of fine young men, with nothing save youth untrained and health the matter with them, would to-day be riding their horses instead of sleeping on the hill. But the coroner wanted support in the next campaign. “Boys will be boys,” said he. “They ain't pulled any guns to-night. But I come away, though. Some of 'em's making up pretty free to Mrs. Lusk. It ain't suitable for me to see too much. Lusk says he's after you,” he mentioned incidentally to Lin. “He's fillin' up, and says he's after you.” McLean nodded placidly, and with scant politeness. He wished this visitor would go. But Judge Slaghammer had noticed the whiskey. He filled himself a glass. “Governor, it has my compliments,” said he. “Ambrosier. Honey-doo.” “Mrs. Slaghammer seems to have a large gathering,” said Barker. “Good boys, good boys!” The judge blew importantly, and waved his arm. “Bull-whackers, cow-punchers, mule-skinners, tin-horns. All spending generous. Governor, once more! Ambrosier. Honey-doo.” He settled himself deep in a chair, and closed his eyes. McLean rose abruptly. “Good-night,” said he. “I'm going to Separ.” “Separ!” exclaimed Slaghammer, rousing slightly. “Oh, stay with us, stay with us.” He closed his eyes again, but sustained his smile of office. “You know how well I wish you,” said Barker to Lin. “I'll just see you start.” Forthwith the friends left the coroner quiet beside his glass, and walked toward the horses through Drybone's gaping quadrangle. The dead ruins loomed among the lights of the card-halls, and always the keen jockey cadences of the fiddle sang across the night. But a calling and confusion were set up, and the tune broke off. “Just like old times!” said his Excellency. “Where's the dump-pile!” It was where it should be, close by, and the two stepped behind it to be screened from wandering bullets. “A man don't forget his habits,” declared the Governor. “Makes me feel young again.” “Makes me feel old,” said McLean. “Hark!” “Sounds like my name,” said Barker. They listened. “Oh yes. Of course. That's it. They're shouting for the doctor. But we'll just spare them a minute or so to finish their excitement.” “I didn't hear any shooting,” said McLean. “It's something, though.” As they waited, no shots came; but still the fiddle was silent, and the murmur of many voices grew in the dance-hall, while single voices wandered outside, calling the doctor's name. “I'm the Governor on a fishing-trip,” said he. “But it's to be done, I suppose.”