He would not talk more on the subject and evinced impatience when pressed. We put up at Kelley's place in the Kingdom, and the sheriff had a few words with Kelley himself before we ate a meal specially prepared for us. "No, he ain't here just now," Kelley said. "He done rode off just after supper. But he'll be here in the morning for breakfast. I hope there ain't nothing wrong, Lafe?" "No-oo. We just want a talk, that's all. Don't tell him, Kelley." There were half a dozen persons at the table when we took our places not long after daylight. Three were prospectors, one was a cowboy, and a miner sat next him. Opposite me was a long, lank, youthful-appearing man, who consumed his food with his nose very close to his plate. He had little to say, except when he desired something. Now, if a man be a lusty trencherman, or if he wolf his food, either by tearing or the process of inhalation, we never pass direct criticism. That might hurt his feelings and the sensibilities of the other diners. No; instead, one glances good-naturedly about the board to pick up the eyes, and remarks in a slow, modulated tone--"Say, ol' Bill here don't eat enough to fatten a hog, does he?" The sheriff watched this individual intently for a space. His scrutiny made me uneasy, although it is true that the gentleman's table manners were offensive. Then he leaned toward him and remarked, smilingly: "Say, you don't eat enough to fatten a steer, do you?" I expected an outbreak. The long person raised his eyes and a sickly smile overspread his face. And then I knew what manner of man we had to deal with. Because, when a man of pluck receives a blow that hurts, he first looks serious and perhaps thoughtful; that is followed by a determined squaring of the jaw. At last he said, essaying a sneer: "I reckon you've got the world by the tail with a down-hill pull, ain't you?" "Perhaps," said Johnson. "I've got you, anyhow, Slim. You're under arrest. Finish that coffee and come on." "Who're you?" the other asked slowly. "The sheriff of Badger." "Well, I ain't sorry. I'll go along," was the reply. On the morning of the second day, another coroner's inquest sat in Badger. Slim Terry faced it. A greenish pallor showed near his eyes and around the corners of his mouth, but he talked composedly. Coroner.--"Did you shoot Bud Walton?" "Yes." "Tell us about it." The prisoner passed a hand over his forehead and down to his chin, as though to clear his thoughts. "This feller Walton, judge, he done run me out of Badger. First, though, he run me out of the Fashion. I ain't been in this town for six months till the day of the shooting. Yes, I was scared of him. I ain't a fighter, gen'l'men. I come in that day, because somebody done sent for me." Coroner.--"Who sent for you?"