A wrinkled little man with a puzzled, lost-puppy look on his face sat on a bench in front mending a set of broken harness. "'Lo, Tex. How they comin'?" he asked. "'Lo, Yorky. Hope I see you well," drawled the horseman, a whimsical twitch of humor at the corner of his mouth. He was swinging his lariat carelessly as cowboys do. "Jes' tol'able. I got a misery in my left shoulder I'm a-goin' to try some yerbs I done had recommended." Yorky was the kind of simple soul who always told you just how he was when you asked him. Roberts passed him and led the way into the house. "Come inside, Yorky, I want to talk with you," he said. The room into which the cowboy had passed was a harness shop. It was littered with saddles and bridles and broken bits of traces. A workman's bench and tools were in one corner of the shop. A door, bolted and padlocked, led to a rear room. Jack put down his rifle and his belt on a shelf and sat down on the bench. "Yore prisoner's in there all right," said the saddler with a jerk of his thumb over his left shoulder. Since no one else in town would take the place, Yorky had been unanimously chosen jailer. He did not like the job, but it gave him an official importance that flattered his vanity. "He's not my prisoner any more, Yorky. He's yours. I quit being a Ranger just twenty-five minutes ago." "You don't say! Well, I reckon you done wise. A likely young fellow--" "Where's yore six-shooter?" demanded Jack. Yorky was a trifle surprised. "You're sittin' on it," he said, indicating the work bench. Roberts got up and stood aside. "Get it." The lank jaw of the jailer hung dolefully. He rubbed its bristles with a hand very unsure of itself. "Now, you look a-hyer, Tex. I'm jailer, I am. I don't allow to go with you to bring in no bad-man. Nothin' of that sort. It ain't in the contract." "I'm not askin' it. Get yore gat." The little saddler got it, though with evident misgivings. The brown, lean young man reseated himself on the bench. "I've come here to get yore prisoner," he explained. "Sure," brightened the jailer. "Wait till I get my keys." He put the revolver down on the table and moved toward the nail on which hung two large keys. "I'm just through tellin' you that I'm no longer a Ranger, but only a private citizen." Yorky was perplexed. He felt he was not getting the drift of this conversation. "Well, an' I done said, fine, a young up 'n' comin' fellow like you--" "You've got no business to turn yore prisoner over to me, Yorky. I'm not an officer." "Oh, tha's all right. Anything you say, Tex." "I'm goin' to give him my horse an' my guns an' tell him to hit the trail." The puzzled lost-dog look was uppermost on the wrinkled little face just now. Yorky was clearly out of his depth. But of course Jack Roberts, the best Ranger in the Panhandle, must know what he was about. "Suits me if it does you, Tex," the saddler chirped.