The section boss accepted the settlement, but evidently not without a sense of the consequences that might follow the discovery in his possession of a cow for which he could not present a bill of sale. He therefore promptly passed the cow on to a Russian cobbler in payment for a pair of shoes. The cobbler, with the European peasant's uncanny ability to make something out of nothing, doctored the cow with a care which he would not have dreamed of bestowing on his wife, and made a profitable milk-provider out of her. Sylvane discovered her during the round-up, picketed outside the Russian's shack, and promptly proceeded to take possession of her. The Russian protested and told his story. Sylvane, pointing out that he was moved by charity and not by necessity, offered the man six dollars, which had been the price of the shoes. The Russian threw up his hands and demanded no less than forty. Sylvane shrugged his shoulders and annexed the cow. That evening as Sylvane was sitting around the mess-wagon with a dozen other cowpunchers, a stranger came walking from the direction of Gladstone. The cow was hitched to the wagon, for she had shown a tendency to choose her own master. The stranger started to detach the rope that held her. "Hold on!" cried Sylvane, "that is our cow." The stranger took some papers out of his pocket and handed them to Sylvane. "Here are replevin papers," he said. "I don't want your papers," remarked Sylvane, who did not know a replevin paper from a dog license. The stranger threw the papers at Sylvane's feet. "I've come to take this cow." "Well," remarked Sylvane, "if that's all the business you have, you can go straight back where you came from." The stranger strode toward the cow, Sylvane did likewise. They reached the rope at the same moment. There was a shout from the delighted audience of cowpunchers. The stranger released his hold on the rope. "If you say I can't take her, I can't take her," the man grumbled. "There's too many of you. But I'll bring back men that can." "Well, turn yourself loose," remarked Sylvane agreeably. "You'll need a lot of them." There was another shout from the onlookers, and the stranger departed. Sylvane threw the papers into the mess-wagon. Roosevelt did not happen to be present, and in his absence the sober counsel of "Deacon" Cummins made itself heard. The gist of it was that Sylvane had resisted an officer of the law, which was a criminal offense. Sylvane, who was afraid of nothing that walked on two legs or on four, had a wholesome respect for that vague and ominous thing known as the Law. "Say, I don't want to get in bad with any sheriff," he said, really worried. "What had I oughter do?"