"Well, he might," argued Pink. "If I was making a quick get-away, and my
horse was about played out--like his was apt t' be--I'd sure round up the
first bunch I seen, and catch me a fresh one--if I was a horse-thief. I'll
bet yuh--"

The sheriff had put down his cup of coffee. "Is there any place where a man
could corral a bunch on the quiet?" he asked crisply. It was evident that
Pink's theory had impressed him.

"Yes, there is. There's an old corral up at the ford--Drowning Ford, they
call it--that I'd use, if it was me. It was an old line camp, and there's a
cabin. It's down on the flat by the creek, and it's as God-forsaken a place
as a man'd want t' hide in, or t' change mounts." Pink hitched up his
chapbelt and looked across at Rowdy. He was aching for a sight of Harry
Conroy in handcuffs, and he was certain that Rowdy felt the same. "If it was
me," he added speculatively, "and I thought I was far enough in the lead,
I'd stop there till morning."

"How far is it from here?" demanded the sheriff, standing up.

Pink told him he guessed it was five miles. Whereupon the sheriff announced
his intention of going up there at once, and Pink hinted rather strongly
that he would like to go with them. The sheriff did not know Pink; he looked
down at his slimness and at the yellow fringe of curls showing under his hat
brim, at his pink cheeks and dimples and girlish hands, and threw back his
head in a loud ha! ha!

Pink asked him politely, but rather stiffly, what there was funny about it.
The sheriff laughed louder and longer; then, being the sort of man who likes
a joke now and then, even in the way of business, he solemnly deputized