“I’m shore sorry,” replied the Cochino Colorow. “If one of ’em now was that Jenkins crim’nal, we’d nacherally prop pore Cimarron up by this yere window, an’ let him have a crack at him with my Winchester.” The Cochino Colorow suggested that Mr. Masterson retire to the room where lay the invalid Cimarron. He said that he could best treat with the visitors alone. Cimarron was tossing to and fro on a couch in a cubby-hole of an apartment immediately to the rear of the Bank Exchange bar. Since the intervening partition was of pine boards, an inch for thickness, what passed between the Cochino Colorow and the invaders fell plainly upon the listening ears of Mr. Masterson and Cimarron. The visitors laid bare their mission. They set forth the escape of Cimarron; and while they would not pretend that Ogallala hungered to destroy that individual, they did urge a loss to the Ogallala honour if he were permitted to walk off in a manner of open, careless insolence. “It ain’t what this Cimarron does,” explained Mr. Sopris; “it ain’t that he’s done more’n shoot away three of Jenks’ fingirs, an’ as they was on the left hand, they may well be spared. What Ogallala objects to is the manner of this person’s escape. It not only puts Mr. Smart in the hole, speshul, but it reflects on Ogallala for hoss sense.” “Well, gents,” returned the Cochino Colorow with cool nonchalance, “you can’t expect me to bother myse’f to death about what comes off in Ogallala. Which, speakin’ general, I’m that numbed by my own misfortunes, I don’t care much what happens, so it don’t happen to me.” “It wasn’t,” retorted Mr. Sopris, “that we allowed you’d feel a heap concerned, but we got a p’inter that you’re harborin’ these yere felons personal.” “Is that so?” observed the Cochino Colorow, assuming airs of chill dignity. “Gents, since you impugns my integrity, my only word is, ‘Make your next move.’” “Our next move,” observed Mr. Sopris, “will be to go squanderin’ about into the uttermost corners of this yere deadfall, an’ search out our game.” “Shore!” exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, picking up a rifle that stood in the corner. “An’ bein’ plumb timid that a-way, of course I’ll neither bat an eye nor wag a year ag’in the outrage.” The Cochino Colorow cocked the Winchester. Mr. Sopris shook his head, as might one whose good nature had been abused. “That’s plenty!” said Mr. Sopris. “Since sech is your attitoode of voylence, we jest won’t search this joint.” “No, I don’t reckon none you will,” retorted the Cochino Colorow, fingering the Winchester. “You two delegates from Ogallala had better hit the trail for home. An’ don’t you never come pirootin’ into North Platte searchin’ for things no more.”