"No, I ain't, but you--" "Then you just step yourself away, young man! Coming here, fairly shaking a body's nerves. I vow, you almost scare me, carrying on-- Put down that dratted gun, I told you. You'll either go, Mr. Deputy Monkey, or I'll see your boss, and we'll see what we'll see." With which Mother--who was rapidly becoming almost impolite in her indignation over this uninvited visit from a person whom she couldn't find it in her heart to like--seized the muzzle of the gun, pushed it down, and stood glowering at the sheriff, her arms akimbo. "Well, ma'am, I don't know who you are, but if you got any idee that this bunch of cut-throats is likely to turn into any W. C. T. U. pink-tea party--" "Now none of your nonsense and impudence and sneering, young man, and be off with you, or I'll see somebody that'll have something to say to you. Illegal goings-on, that's what they are; no warrant or nothing." One of the sheriff's companions muttered: "Come on, Bill. I think she's the wife of that nosey new preacher over to Cordova." "All right," said the sheriff. Before he turned away he threatened, "Now if I hear of anything more from you boys, I'll get that warrant, all righty, and you'll land in the calaboose, where you belong." But the hoboes about the fire cheered derisively, and as the sheriff disappeared in the woods they surrounded Mother in a circle of grins and shining eyes, and the K. C. Kid was the first to declare: "Good for you, aunty. You're elected camp boss, and you can make me perm'nent cookee, if you want to." "Well, then," said Mother, calmly, "let's get that nasty shack cleaned up right away. I do declare I'm beginning to get sleepy." Nothing in his life was more to Father's credit than the fact that he did not envy Mother the credit of having become monarch of the camp and protector of the poor. "I'm with you, Mother," he said. "What you want me to do? Let's hustle. Blizzard coming--with a warrant." * * * * * Round a camp-fire in the woods a group of men were playing cards, wire-bearded men in rough coats and greasy flannel shirts; but the most violent thing they said was "Doggone it," and sometimes they stopped to listen to the strains of "Dandy Dick and the Candlestick," which a white-haired cheerful old gentleman rendered on the mouth-organ. Father was perched on a powder-can. His feet were turned inward with comfort and soul-satisfaction, and now and then he jerked his head sideways, with an air of virile satisfaction. The collar of his blue-flannel shirt poked up beside his chin as cockily as the ear of a setter pup.... Father didn't know it, but he was making believe be King of the Bandits.