“No, oh no! I wouldn’t do that. But you tell him what I said, will you?” So Bud, inwardly chuckling, went to Hunter’s place, only to be motioned away. “Get out of here, you old goat. I won’t listen to any more of your ideas. You’re the cause of all this.” “The most ungrateful thing in the world,” opined the storekeeper, returning to Burnt Creek, “is mixin’ in family troubles. Men’ve been killed fer less. But if I’m to be hung I might as well be hung fer somethin’ good. Patch that up summow.” Man and girl were crowded from his mind in the succeeding weeks. Events in the sparse Central Oregon country move with the same irregular frequency as elsewhere. Out of a serene sky broke seven kinds of trouble into which Bud was directly or indirectly drawn. For one thing, threshing season was on full blast, and every able-bodied man gave his services; this was communal law. Then the road commissioners in a frenzy of economy--just before election--decided to leave unimproved a more or less impassable stretch of the Bend Klamath Highway. The storekeeper, being apprised of it, rode to town in a fury and shocked those commissioners out of their economic resolutions. He fought for his people and his land ruthlessly, and, being a power in his own right, won. Hardly had this subsided when the shadow of Bottle-nose Henderson fell across the land. Bottle-nose was one of those derelicts for whom society has no honored place. In a more highly organized community he would have been sent to an asylum. Cascade county tolerated him because he stuck to the open spaces and left people alone. But somewhere on his lone trail the last restraining fiber of reason snapped, and he reverted to the law of the jungle. He ran amuck, terrorized the edges of the county, and sent unprotected families into gusts of fear. No one seemed safe from his swift attack. The sheriff set out a posse, and they traced his course southward toward the Burnt Creek region by three pilfered houses and several frightened women. This trail was all the posse found. Bottle-nose had become illusive as well as a highly dangerous character. It was from him that the storekeeper conceived what seemed to be a sound idea one late summer evening as he jogged homeward. Toby, plodding along in dignified weariness, was startled to feel his master shake as if from ague; something that passed as a chuckle issued from Bud’s barrellike chest. “If I got caught I’d sure be hamstrung,” mused the storekeeper. “Would lose all my reputation if I got caught an’ mebbe git a dose of lead poisonin’. But it cert’nly oughta bring results.” And results were all that Bud cared about. At any rate, the idea took possession of him. His chin fell forward and Toby, unchecked, picked a faster pace toward Burnt Creek, viewing, doubtless, the measure of oats in the stall. A wise horse was Toby, but this time sentenced to a grievous disappointment. On reaching the store, Bud went in and returned with his revolver.