Once in the Panhandle—he may be there to-day—there lived a personage of cows whose name was Old Tom Harris. I have referred to this worthy man before. He numbered but thirty years, and the epithet of “Old” was a title of endearment which his mates of rope and running-iron had conferred upon him to mark their admiration of his arctic dauntlessness of heart. Mr. Willingham, sheriff, having official reason so to do, aimed his six-shooter at Old Tom Harris when the latter’s back was turned. Then he called upon him to hold up his hands. Old Tom Harris came ’round on his heel, but he did not throw up his hands. Looking into the point-blank mouth of the Willingham pistol, he pulled his own. Then he laid it, muzzle for muzzle, with the opposing piece of ordnance, and defied Mr. Willingham to begin his blazing work. “You haven’t the sand to shoot!” said Old Tom Harris. And Mr. Willingham hadn’t. It might bear suggestion that the courage of Sergeant King was caution-born. With seven chances in his favour where his enemy possessed but three he would offer battle. With chances even he would be more discreet. Mr. Masterson’s courage was of the Old Tom Harris stamp. The Mexican stood at the door of the Lady Gay, holding the pony of Sergeant King. Suddenly, above the hubbub of the games, arose the voice of that unworthy. “Thar’s a hoss thief here I’d like to kill!” In the hush that followed every eye went nervously seeking the speaker. He stood erect, his six-shooter in his right hand and hanging by his side. It would have been wiser, from the standpoint of his enterprise, you will say, had Sergeant King gone instantly and wordlessly to work; you will condemn the oratory as marking a lack of military intelligence. There was a reason for the rhetoric of Sergeant King. The rules to govern Western gun-play do not permit the shooting of one’s enemy in the back. It is one’s notifying duty to arouse him. Once he be on his guard, and reaching for his artillery, one is licensed to begin his downfall. A violation of these laws leads to a vigilance committee, a rope, and a nearest tree. Sergeant King was aware of these courtesies of the gun and what public resentment would attend their violation. Wherefore, and that the proprieties related might be appeased, he shouted: “Thar’s a hoss thief here I’d like to kill.” Mr. Masterson was in no wise a friend of Sergeant King, and yet he would not have called himself that person’s enemy. He quietly distasted, and as quietly failed, to be on nearer than nodding terms with him. Also, he distrusted the fortitude of Sergeant King as neither granite-bedded nor iron-bound. “I once,” observed Mr. Masterson, in later exposition of that courage of Sergeant King, and his estimate thereof; “I once saw him jump over a counter to get at a party, when he might as well have gone ’round, and the episode struck me as too dramatic. From that moment I knew the Sergeant wasn’t clean strain game.”