"Oh, I dunno," replied the sheriff, sizing his man up carefully, "Geronimo County has been able to take care of itself, so far; and when I put the matter in its proper light to men who have been a little lax in the past—men like Upton and Mr. Crittenden, for instance—they seem perfectly willing to pay. These taxes are to support the county government, you understand—to build roads and keep up the schools and all that sort of thing—and every property-owner ought to be glad to do his share. Now about how many head of cows have you got up at Lost Dog Cañon?" "I've got jest about enough to keep me in meat," answered Pecos, evasively. "Um, that'd be about two hundred head, wouldn't it?" Two hundred was a close guess, and this unexpected familiarity with his affairs startled the cowboy, but his face, nevertheless, did not lose its defiant stare. Two hundred was really the difference between what U cows Upton had lost last spring and the total of Crittenden's Wine-glass bunch, and Boone Morgan was deeply interested in the whereabouts of that particular two hundred head. To Old Crit, this tax-collecting was only a mean raid on his pocket-book—to Morgan it was the first step in his campaign against cattle rustling. When he had determined the number of head in every brand he might be able to prove a theft—but not till then. "Call it two hundred," he suggested, holding out the paper encouragingly, but Pecos drew back his hand scornfully. "Not if it was a cow and calf," he said, "I wouldn't pay a cent. D'ye think I want to pay a government of robbers? What does yore dam' government do for me, or any other pore man, but make us trouble?" "Well, sometimes that's all a government can do for a certain class of people," observed the sheriff, eying him coldly, "and I'd like to say right now, Mr. Dalhart, that in such a case it can make a hell of a lot of trouble." Pecos grunted. "Now, jest for instance," continued Morgan, warming up a little, "in case you don't pay your taxes on them two hundred head of cattle I can get judgment against you, seize any or all of 'em, and sell the whole shooting-match for taxes. I'll do it, too," he added. "Well, turn yoreself loose, then," flared back Pecos, "the bars are down. But I'll tell you right now, the first deputy tax-collector that puts a rope on one of my cows, I'll bounce a rock off'n him—or something worse!" "I ain't accustomed to take no threats, Mr. Dalhart," bellowed Boone Morgan, his temper getting away with him, "and especially from a man in your line of business! Now you go your way, and go as far as you please, but if I don't put the fear of God into your black, cattle-rustling heart my name is 'Sic 'em' and I'm a dog. I'll collect them taxes, sir, _next week_!"