"Say," cried the gentleman of the peg-tops, "ain't I got anything to say in this? You're getting too gay, you two. Do you hear? Ain't a man got any rights in this country? I can run my wife alone, can't I?" "Does this here party belong to you, ma'am? Are you his wife?" "No." "What? You ain't? You sit there and say you ain't my wife? Why--" "I married him, but I'm not his wife." "Sure," said the sheriff, "I see. I don't blame you, ma'am." He put on his hat. The other was watching him doubtfully. "You come along with me," said Lafe. "Come along, my foot. What do you think you are, anyway?" "That's all right. I'm sheriff here. And if I wasn't, I'd take you along. It's one of the rules of this here town that a man can't talk to his wife like you done. Understand? Get a-going, now. I'm liable to get peevish directly." Still he hesitated. Lafe was growing angry. His rage always seemed sudden, but this was by design. In reality it was the release of long-pent and controlled passion. Said the sheriff: "Hurry up, Harris." "My name ain't Harris. It's Jackson." "Jackson or Harris, it's all the same to me. You were Harris when me and Buf'lo Jim done run you out of Cananea. I reckon you ain't forgot that, have you?" A quick glimmer of recognition showed that Mr. Harris had not. He sobered with amazing celerity. "Where're we going?" he asked. "You get moving first," said the sheriff, "and then we'll figure on that." "I won't go," was the emphatic rejoinder. "No, sir; not me. Tell him to leave us alone, Hetty. I'm within my rights. And you're framing up something. I can tell." "Say, Harris, you're fixing to get hurt awful bad." The sheriff's air was regretful. He stepped to the door and held it open, nodding at Jackson. That young man gave him a swift look and banged his hat down over his curling bang. Without even a word to the girl, who was regarding the tableau much as a spectator from a seat in the stalls, he walked out. The sheriff followed. Within a minute he stuck his head inside again to say: "I'll be back right away." She made no response. The two walked out to the residence of Dutch Annie, Johnson a yard in advance. Dutch Annie said: "Don't you bring that rat in here, Mr. Johnson." She was a forceful woman, of startling precision of speech. Annie would not open the door, but surveyed the abject Harris through a crack about two inches wide. The sheriff kept the toe of his boot inside, to prevent Dutch Annie slamming it against them. "I'm not here to make trouble for you, Annie," he hastened to say, "but just take a look at this feller. Ain't you seen him before?" "Huh! I reckon so. He done married Sarah last year and run off and left her on my hands. Hush--best to get away quiet. If she hears he's here, there'll be no holding of Sarah." "That's all," said Lafe, and the door banged in their faces. "Now," he said to Harris, "you hit for foreign shores. I start shooting at forty. Quick."