Arizona grinned. “No, I hope I ain’t, Fuzzy. The boys are allus kickin’ about the way this gun shoots, so I thought I’d tinker it a little. Just gettin’ ready to try it out. See that tin can on top of the mesquite out there, Skeet? See if you can hit it.” Skeeter took the rifle, cuddled the butt against his shoulder, and carefully squeezed the trigger. The tin can jumped into the air and disappeared. Skeeter Bill levered out the empty shell, and handed the gun to Arizona, who said: “See anythin’ wrong with that gun, Skeet?” “It shoots where yuh hold it, Arizona.” “That’s what I allus tell the boys--it ain’t the gun, it’s you.” “Skeet always could shoot the eye out of a gnat,” said Fuzzy. “And never lift its eyebrow,” added Arizona soberly. “It’s jist a gift, that’s all. Some folks never can learn. Are yuh stayin’ at Fuzzy’s place, Skeet?” “Yeah, for a few days. I’m sort of a drifter, Arizona.” “I know yuh are, and I’m sorry, Skeet. It don’t pay. I used to want to keep movin’, but I finally got smart, and I says to me: “‘Arizony, yuh’re gettin’ old. A rollin’ stone gathers no moss. You get a good, steady job and stick with it.’ And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve been here eighteen years, and look what I’ve got.” “What have yuh got?” asked Skeeter Bill. “A steady job and I only owe three dollars and six bits. Yuh never can tell how I’d be fixed if I kept on driftin’.” “Yuh’ve made a lot of sacrifices to git where yuh are, too,” remarked Fuzzy. “I ’member when yuh didn’t have anythin’.” “That’s before I got smart, Fuzzy.” V Declining to wait and eat supper at the Tumbling K, Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy cut across the hills to the Bar D. Aunt Emma was a little worried. She said, “After what happened this mornin’, I’d naturally worry.” “Nobody wants to hurt Fuzzy,” said Skeeter Bill. “They shot up a dummy, didn’t they?” “I resent that, Emmy,” protested Fuzzy. “Mebbe the heat has affected yore good manners. Set down and fan yourself.” “I think I will,” she smiled. “I’ve got the mulligan simmering on the stove, and the biscuits ready to shoot into the oven. That old stove is hotter than what sinners have facing them. Any news in Yellow Butte?” “We didn’t find any,” sighed Fuzzy, fanning himself with his hat. “At least, I didn’t--I dunno about Skeet. I seen him come from the New York Chop House, walkin’ like the devil was proddin’ him. He was gone a few minutes, and came back faster’n that. Into the Chop House he goes, stays a minute or two, and comes out.” “Keepin’ cases on me, eh?” Skeeter Bill. “I’d like to ask yuh a question, Fuzzy; did you ever hear that Sam Keenan owns the New York Chop House?” “Sam Keenan? No, I never did, Skeet. Where’d yuh get that idea?” “Things kind of come to me,” replied Skeeter Bill. “How is Margie Edwards?” asked Aunt Emma.