in there?"

The punchers gathered around in delight. For the time they had
forgotten tobacco.

Curly looked around him slowly in every direction. He snarled like a
Scotch terrier through his ragged beard.

"Where is this?" he rasped through his parched throat. "It's a damn
farm in an old field. What'd you bring me here for--say? Did I say I
wanted to come here? What are you Reubs rubberin' at--hey? G'wan or
I'll punch some of yer faces."

"Drag him out, Collins," said Ranse.

Curly took a slide and felt the ground rise up and collide with his
shoulder blades. He got up and sat on the steps of the store shivering
from outraged nerves, hugging his knees and sneering. Taylor lifted
out a case of tobacco and wrenched off its top. Six cigarettes began
to glow, bringing peace and forgiveness to Sam.

"How'd you come in my wagon?" repeated Ranse, this time in a voice
that drew a reply.

Curly recognised the tone. He had heard it used by freight brakemen
and large persons in blue carrying clubs.

"Me?" he growled. "Oh, was you talkin' to me? Why, I was on my way to
the Menger, but my valet had forgot to pack my pyjamas. So I crawled
into that wagon in the wagon-yard--see? I never told you to bring me