“You set down here and rest your feet,” says I to Old Testament, “I’ll hitch up the buckboard, and go to town. I just got enough time to get there.” That was some ride. Them broncs were as wild as deer, and we went to Paradise so fast that the dust didn’t settle for thirty minutes after I ties up at the station. The train is late, so I goes over to Mike Pelly’s place, and washes the sheep-taste out of my throat. It takes quite a lot of liquid, and when I goes back to the station I’m sheep-proof. The train pulls in and I spots my man. There’s quite a crowd at the station, but I knowed him the minute he got off, and it takes me about three steps to get where he’s standing. Being sheep-proof, I’m also polite, so I takes his valise away from him, and starts for the rig. “Come on, Blackstone,” says I, “your carriage waits without.” He starts with me, but he seems to complain a heap, so I stops and asks him whyfore the objections. “Where the Sam Hill are you taking my bag?” he asks, getting red in the face. “Who told you to take that valise?” “Mister,” says I, “don’t excite yourself thataway. I’m doing all I can to make you comfortable. Sabe? I advises you to come along peaceable, and anything you may say will be used against you.” I always thought that lawyers tried to settle things peaceably, but I don’t reckon this one runs true to form, ’cause he hit me so hard under the chin that he drove my head right up to the top of my hat. That hat always was too small, but after that wallop I has to stuff the sweat-band with paper so she’ll fit. The train is pulling out when I wakes up, and I sees that fat feller standing on the rear platform. “What was you aiming to do, Hen?” asks Bill McFee, our sheriff, who is setting beside me on the platform. “That was the feller I was here to meet, Bill,” says I. “He’s sure a sudden son-of-a-gun for a lawyer.” “He ain’t no lawyer, Henry,” says Bill. “He’s the railroad paymaster, and he thought you was trying to steal his roll.” “Wrong man,” says I. “Seen any stranger get off the train?” Bill shakes his head, so I pilgrims around to where I tied my rig, and there sets Telescope, Chuck and the old man. Them three acts like they was tickled stiff, and Telescope yelps at me— “Got the telegram, did you, Henry?” I don’t have nothing to say, and that seems to make ’em more joyful. I don’t keep silent from choice, but that feller darn near unjointed my jaw and she hurts like thunder when I opens my face. “Muley still wearing crape?” asks Chuck, as we ride out of town, and all three of ’em busts out laughing. “Danged mean trick,” opines the old man. “You remember Jimmy Frederick, don’t you, Hen? He was out here a few years ago. He knows Muley well. We were up in his office and Telescope and Chuck got him to write that letter.” “How many sheep has Muley bought on his nerve?” asks Chuck.