“What’d I tell you?” says Stranger, turning in at a butcher shop. And there he asks may we use the scales, and pours our ill-gotten gains into both scoops till they balance. “Take your choice, pardner,” he says. “You’re short on faith, but you’re hell on works!” Next to a restaurant. Before our order comes, in steps Billy Edwards. He was a deputy sheriff, but white. “Would you mind my asking your name? ’Cause Frenchy doesn’t know. He’s swearing out a warrant for you, alleging assault with intent to kill,” says Billy politely. “They haven’t give me the warrant yet. Course if they had I wouldn’t tell you this, for you might get away before I found you.” I’d never thought to ask his name! “Artemus G. Jones,” says he, and he stuck his thumb in his vest. “Set down and take supper with us.” “Ar--ahem. Er--what does the G. stand for?” Artie looks embarrassed. “Galatians,” he sighs. “What? Was you named after--” “I was named,” says Artie, “after a family scrap. Can’t you suppress it? Artemus G. ought to identify me.” [Illustration: Frenchy told a terrible tale of wanton robbery. Page 57] “I--I thought it might spell easier,” says Billy. After supper we walks over and gets the warrant. Billy arrests Artie and disarms him. “_You_ know _your_ business--I’ll make any kind of bet on that,” says Billy; “but in your place I should have been far away on a bounding bronco.” We went to be tried before Judge Eliot. Frenchy kept a jack-leg lawyer named Satterlee, and he was helping persecute. “Have you legal advice, prisoner?” says his Honor. “A little,” says Artie softly. “Proceed. Call the plaintiff.” Frenchy took the stand and told a terrible tale of wanton robbery and brutal, unprovoked violence. He had won an election bet from prisoner, and prisoner had taken the money by force. He showed his wounds. He shore looked like he’d been playing goat with a buzz-saw. Brown and the lookout was good witnesses, but they let out, when the Judge questioned them, that Artie had the money in his sack before the trouble began and that Frenchy had a gun. And not a word about my presence of mind. Artie allowed he wouldn’t cross-examine them. His Honor was riled. “Will you take the stand, sir?” he says. Artie stretches. “Oh, no--I guess it’s not worth while to take up your time. Ugh--o--oaoh,” he says, yawning. Judge was furious. “Prisoner, if you’ve got any witnesses in your defense, call ’em. As the evidence stands--up you go!” Artie placed himself on top of his feet. “Your Honor,” he says “call Billy Edwards.” Billy gives his name, sex, color, and other essentials. Then says Artie: “You arrested me to-night?” “Yes.” “Was my gun loaded?” “One of them was empty. The other one had five cartridges in it,” Edwards promptly asserts. “Was the loaded one bloody?” “Awful.”