“Tha’sall,” nodded Brick seriously. “I remember when I was a little kid I had to recite a poem in school. It was somethin’ about Napoleon Bonaparte. It had a line like this— “A very easy thing to plan, but difficult to do; As Wellington made clear to him one day at Waterloo.” “Or it might be kinda like the Frenchman’s flea-powder, in which the directions said, ‘First catch the little flea.’” “Still, it might be a danged good thing for me and Brick, if he did get beat,” observed Harp. “Livin’ in the city this-a-way is plumb ruinin’ both of us.” Brick grinned at his deputy, but the lanky one was serious. Marlin City was a city in name only. By virtue of its central location, it was the county-seat of Sun Dog County, but this honor had never caused it to advance beyond the small, cow-town stage. It had one street, not too straight and not too long, bordered with unpainted buildings, which were mostly of the false-fronted style of architecture. The wooden sidewalks, four feet in width, oozed pitch in the Summer; and in the Winter the excessive cold caused the nails to snap out of the two-by-four girders, leaving the top-boards free to rattle and clatter underfoot, like walking over an unmusical xylophone. Of shade-trees there was none. In fact, someone had said that there was only one tree between Marlin City and the North Pole. A branch line of the C. P. Railroad had recently been completed into Marlin City, giving them transportation for stock and mining products; but the advent of a railroad had not caused any perceptible boom in the country. Brick Davidson had been sheriff of Sun Dog County for two years, during which time both Silent and Harp had worked as deputies; not because they liked the work, but because Brick had needed the services of trustworthy men. Silent Slade had won his nickname because of his ability to talk continuously. He was never short on conversation, except when asleep. Silent was slow of movement, because of his great size, except when the occasion demanded speed; but he was not slow of temper. Harp Harris was slow to anger, but loved trouble. He could ride anything he could saddle, and rope with deadly accuracy. But his favorite occupation was playing the jew’s-harp. And no one except Harp could recognize his tunes; but there was something about that weird _tung-g-ging_ that soothed the soul of the lean, angular cowpuncher and caused him to relax and close his eyes in ecstasy. Just now he placed the instrument between his teeth, relaxed against the wall and struck a preliminary note. “My ——!” exclaimed Silent, getting to his feet. “That —— thing is about to start agin’, Brick. C’mon; I’ll buy yuh a drink.” “All right,” grinned Brick.