And this is not to say that Jim Radabaugh had nothing to do. There was the case, for example, of the darky who was wanted for burglary in one of the cities in the southern part of the state. Jim got word that he was drinking in a hovel down by the creek, with two other men. So he went down there and strolled in and told the man he was wanted. Jim’s hands, at the moment, were in his coat pockets. The darky pulled a revolver, jammed it against Jim’s breast, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened; that is to say, nothing happened to Jim. The darky’s gun did not explode, but Jim’s did. It burned a hole in his pocket, and it bored a hole in the darky, neatly amidships, in such fashion that there was no further occasion to trouble with that man. His body, laid open with two slashes of the coroner’s knife that intersected on the bullet hole, was on view for a day or two in the undertaker’s back room; and small boys went in to see it. They thought Jim Radabaugh was rather more than mortal, after that. As a matter of fact, it had been a narrow squeak for Jim, as an examination of the darky’s weapon proved. That unfortunate man had apparently been unable to buy revolver ammunition, so he had bought rifle cartridges of the desired caliber and whittled off the bullets to make them fit into the cylinder of the revolver. Perhaps he had hurried with this bit of preparation; at any rate, he left one of the bullets too long, and when he pulled the trigger, the bullet caught and prevented the cylinder from turning. Which undoubtedly saved Jim Radabaugh’s life. People agreed that was a good thing; for Jim was a good fellow. Wint’s orders to clean up the town interested him. They meant some measure of excitement, and he liked excitement. He told two or three people, that night, and they spread the news. But Jim took no official step till next day. Then he set out to serve notice on those most concerned. One of these people most concerned was a man named Lutcher. His place of business was on the second floor of a building that fronted on one of the alleys in the heart of town. You climbed an outside stair from the alley to Lutcher’s door. Wint and Jack Routt went there, that night of Amos Caretall’s first home-coming, from their interrupted billiard game. Lutcher’s place was perhaps the best in town; that is to say, the surroundings were least sordid, and the wares he sold most meritorious. He was financed, of course, by Kite.