The sheriff stepped forward and spoke gruffly to the major. “I’m not here, Howard, to help you badger this old coot. You swore out a warrant for his arrest. I’m here to serve it.” He turned to Sam. “Get whatever you want to take along. This warrant calls for your arrest--charge is stealing one black mare.” Sam blinked and his eyes shifted to the sheriff’s face. In all his life the law had never laid a hand on him. He had had some experiences of his own with horse thieves. When he caught a man with the goods he handled the affair himself. And claim jumpers were met and dealt with according to a man’s rights. He rubbed his bony fingers together. He could explain, he could even take the sheriff to his hidden claim, he could produce the pouch of dust. But it wasn’t the right of any man to ask where he had been or what he had been doing. Besides, the claim wasn’t staked and if fools who didn’t know pockets and glory holes saw that ground there’d be a rush and the whole ridge would be turned upside down. His eyes glinted brightly as he turned toward his door. He backed past the table and one hand lifted to the belt hanging from its willow peg. His gnarled fingers closed around the familiar butt of his forty-five Colt. The gun slid down and snuggled against his hip. Then he shuffled toward the door. “Get! Get--afore I blast yuh!” he whispered hoarsely as he stepped into the sunshine. The deputy saw the gun first. He came to life with a jerk and his hand shot down to his own gun. Sam shot from the hip. His aim wasn’t steady; the black muzzle wavered a little because Sam’s old eyes couldn’t see clearly. Black-powder smoke billowed in a blue-white cloud, filling the doorway. Through the smoke Sam saw the deputy double over, then pitch forward. He was swinging his gun around to bring it down on the major when the sheriff’s boot shot upward and sent it spinning from his hand. The officer’s voice out through the smoke. “Now you got something to answer for, you old coot!” He stepped forward and a heavy hand dropped upon Sam’s shoulder. He was jerked forward and in less than a minute his wrists were handcuffed together. He stood silently watching the sheriff and the major plug the deputy’s wound. The man was weak and sick, but he was alive. The major straightened and glared at Sam. He had never intended to have the old fellow jailed, he merely wanted to scare him into revealing what he had done with the black mare. Sam’s reaction irritated and puzzled him. Now the old fool could take whatever the law handed him; the major made up his mind to that. Sheriff Miller had a different slant on the affair. He was a mountainman himself. All his life he had dealt with cowhands and miners. He recognized that Sam was acting as most of them would act under the same conditions. He blamed himself because he had thought Sam too old to have any fire left. “I’m not too proud of this job,” he said sourly to the major. “You’d better do your duty,” the major snapped.