They put their ponies to an easy lope across the slope and came on a tepee tent with the flap laced tight and no sign of life, but a horse lazily floundering up beside a large fallen log, an empty whiskey bottle on the log, and a man's boot leg protruding from beneath the tent skirt. "A'm wonderin' if there's a leg in that boot, Wayland." "It's the sheriff's horse," said Wayland. "It is, is it? And this is off y'r Forest Range; an' y'r not responsible for what A may be tempted to do?" The old frontiersman literally avalanched off his broncho and made a dash at the tent flap, frapping it loudly with the flat of his hand. "Here you--anybody inside?" No response came from the owner of the leg. "Here you, waken up." Matthews caught hold of the leg and pulled and pulled. There was a splutter of snorts, and, 'what in Hell's,' and the fat girth of an apple-shaped body ripped the tent pegging free and came out under the tepee skirt followed by another leg, and two oozy hands flabbily clawing at the grass roots to stop the unusual exit. One hand held a flat flask and the air became flavored with the second-hand fumes of a whiskey cask. The sheriff rolled over after the manner of apple-shaped bodies and sat up on the end of his spine rubbing his eyes. Then, he recollected the dignity of his office and got groggily to his feet, steadying himself by clutches at the tent flap. Then, he emitted a hiccough. "'Scuse m'," he said thickly. "I'm not well, thas ish not really well! Will one of y' pleash gimme a drink o' water? I been chasin' those damn-cow-boy-outlawsh seven weeks sclean 'cross Shate Sline, I'm dead beat out. Thas you, ain't it Wayland? Kindsh o' you both come after me! Saw y' pash tha' day y' called t' door! Wife tol' me to hide--not risk m' life, women 're all thas way; skeary; skeary. Well, I bin out ever shince y' pashed! I nearly got 'em, too! I caught 'em right in here day after shnow slide had 'em cornered! Gosh, bullets was pretty thick fur about half-an-hour; bu' I cud'nt chross Shtate Line." Something in the old frontiersman's widening eyes and glowering brows stopped the flow of valor; and Sheriff Flood dragged his exhausted virtue across to the log with some difficulty as to knees and elbows, got himself turned round and seated. "Y' been out huntin' them seven weeks?" "Yes, seven weeks!" His articulation had cleared a little. "Please gimme m' gun, Wayland!" "Y' saw them? Y're sure y' saw them?" "Saw them?" Sheriff Flood laughed in a thin little squeaking laugh. "Gosh A'mighty, I--I fought--them single handed for a whole half day; I think I got one! Least ways, there's a powerful smell som'pin dead comin' up below the Pass Trail. It's too steep to go down to see. I wish I knew."