"That night I mentions the matter to Ogden.

"'They're drawing the tendrils of the octopus around Black Bill,' says
I. And then I told him about the deputy sheriff, and how I'd described
him to the deputy, and what the deputy said about the matter.

"'Oh, well,' says Ogden, 'let's don't borrow any of Black Bill's
troubles. We've a few of our own. Get the Bourbon out of the cupboard
and we'll drink to his health--unless,' says he, with his little
cackling laugh, 'you're prejudiced against train-robbers.'

"'I'll drink,' says I, 'to any man who's a friend to a friend. And I
believe that Black Bill,' I goes on, 'would be that. So here's to Black
Bill, and may he have good luck.'

"And both of us drank.

"About two weeks later comes shearing-time. The sheep had to be driven
up to the ranch, and a lot of frowzy-headed Mexicans would snip the
fur off of them with back-action scissors. So the afternoon before the
barbers were to come I hustled my underdone muttons over the hill,
across the dell, down by the winding brook, and up to the ranch-house,
where I penned 'em in a corral and bade 'em my nightly adieus.

"I went from there to the ranch-house. I find H. Ogden, Esquire,
lying asleep on his little cot bed. I guess he had been overcome by
anti-insomnia or diswakefulness or some of the diseases peculiar to the
sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and he breathed like a
second-hand bicycle pump. I looked at him and gave vent to just a few
musings. 'Imperial Cæsar,' says I, 'asleep in such a way, might shut