"Do you spell _scoundrel_ with a _k_?" the Ranger chief fired abruptly at him. "Nary a _k_, Captain. I spell it _b-a-d m-a-n_." "H'mp!" snorted the little man. "Ain't you got no education? A man's got to use a syllogism oncet in a while, I reckon." "Mebbeso. What kind of a gun is it?" drawled Jack Roberts. "A syllogism is a word meanin' the same as another word, like as if I was to say _caballo_ for _horse_ or _six-shooter_ for _revolver_." "I see--or _tough guy_ for _Texas ranger_." "Or _durn fool_ for _Jack Roberts_," countered Ellison promptly. "Now you're shoutin', Cap. Stomp on me proper. I certainly need to be curried." Again the Ranger snorted. "H'mp! Been scarin' any more young ladies to death?" "No more this mo'nin', Captain," answered Jack equably. "Nor grandstandin' with any more _ladino_ steers?" "I exhibit only once a day." "By dog, you give a sure-enough good show," exploded Ellison. "You got yore nerve, boy. Wait around till the prettiest girl in Texas can see you pull off the big play--run the risk of havin' her trampled to death, just so's you can grin an' say, 'Pleased to meet you, ma'am.' When I call you durn fool, I realize it's too weak a name." "Hop to it, Captain. Use up some real language on me. Spill out a lot of those syllogisms you got bottled up inside you. I got it comin'," admitted Roberts genially as he rolled a cigarette. The Captain had been a mule-skinner once, and for five glorious minutes he did himself proud while the graceless young cowpuncher beamed on him. "You sure go some, Cap," applauded the young fellow. "I'd admire to have your flow of talk." Ellison subsided into anticlimax. "Well, don't you ever drive yore wild hill-critters through town again. Hear me, young fellow?" "You'll have to speak to Wadley about that. I'm not his trail boss any longer." "Since when?" "Since five o'clock yesterday evenin'. I was turnin' over the herd this mo'nin' when the little lady showed up an' I had to pull off the bulldoggin'." "Wadley fire you?" "That's whatever." "Why?" "Didn't like the way I mussed up son Rutherford, I kind o' gathered." "Another of yore fool plays. First you beat up Wadley's boy; then you 'most massacree his daughter. Anything more?" "That's all up to date--except that the old man hinted I was a brand-burner." "The deuce he did!" "I judge that son Rutherford had told him I was one of the Dinsmore gang. Seems I'm all right except for bein' a rowdy an' a bully an' a thief an' a bad egg generally." "H'mp! Said you was a rustler, did he?" The Ranger caressed his goatee and reflected on this before he pumped a question at the line-rider. "Are you?" "No more than Rutherford Wadley." The Captain shot a swift slant look at this imperturbable young man. Was there a hidden meaning in that answer? "What's the matter with Wadley? Does he expect you to let Ford run it over you? That ain't like Clint." "He's likely listened to a pack o' lies."