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At any rate, we drew into Spring Creek at five o’clock, shooting at every jump. My friend’s ranch was only six miles farther. This was home for Bill, and we were soon surrounded by many acquaintances. He had letters and packages for many of them; and detailed many items of local news. To us shortly came a cowboy who had evidently bought all the calico he could carry. This person was also long and lean and brown; hard bitten; bedecked with worn brown leather chaps, and wearing a gun. The latter he unbuckled and cast from him with great scorn.

“And I don’t need no gun to do it, neither!” he stated, as though concluding a long conversation.

“Shore not, Slim,” agreed one of the group, promptly annexing the artillery. “What is it?”

“Kill that —- —- —- Beck,” said Slim, owlishly. “I can do it; and I can do it with my bare hands, b’ God!”

He walked sturdily enough in the direction of the General Store across the dusty square. No one paid any further attention to his movements. The man who had picked up the gun belt buckled it around his own waist. Bill refilled the ever-thirsty radiator, peered at his gasoline gauge, leisurely turned down a few grease cups. Ten minutes passed. We were about ready to start.

Back across the square drifted a strange figure. With difficulty we recognized it as the erstwhile Slim. He had no hat. His hair stuck out in all directions. One eye was puffing shut, blood oozed from a cut in his forehead and dripped from his damaged nose. One shirt sleeve had been half torn from its parent at the shoulder. But, most curious of all, Slim’s face was evenly marked by a perpendicular series of long, red scratches as though he had been dragged from stem to stern along a particularly abrasive gravel walk. Slim seemed quite calm.

His approach was made in a somewhat strained silence. At length there spoke a dry, sardonic voice.

“Well,” said it, “did you kill Beck?”

“Naw!” replied Slim’s remains disgustedly, “the son of a gun wouldn’t fight!”

We reached my friend’s ranch just about dusk. He met me at the yard gate.

“Well!” he said, heartily. “I’m glad you’re here! Not much like the old days, is it?”

I agreed with him.

“Journey out is dull and uninteresting now. But compared to the way we used to do it, it is a cinch. Just sit still and roll along.”

I disagreed with him–mentally.

“The old order has changed,” said he.

“Yes,” I agreed, “now it’s one yard of calico.”