and lying across his lap was a repeating Winchester rifle, not
dangerous because it was empty, a condition due to the wisdom of the
citizens in forbidding any one to sell, trade or give to him those
tubes of concentrated trouble, because he could get drunk.

The two were contented and happy. They had no cares nor duties, and
their pleasures were simple and easily secured, as they consisted of
sleep and a proneness to avoid moving. Like the untrammeled coyote,
their bed was where sleep overtook them; their food, what the night
wrapped in a sense of security, or the generosity of the cowboys of
the Bar-20. No tub-ridden Diogenes ever knew so little of
responsibility or as much unadulterated content. There is a penalty
even to civilization and ambition.

When the sun had cast its shadows beyond By-and-by's feet the air
became charged with noise; shouts, shots and the rolling thunder of
madly pounding hoofs echoed flatly throughout the town. By-and-by
yawned, stretched and leaned back, reveling in the semi-conscious
ecstasy of the knowledge that he did not have to immediately get up.
Fleas opened one eye and cocked an ear in inquiry, and then rolled
over on his back, squirmed and sighed contentedly and long. The outfit
of the Bar-20 had come to town.

The noise came rapidly nearer and increased in volume as the riders
turned the corner and drew rein suddenly, causing their mounts to
slide on their haunches in ankle-deep dust.

"Hullo, old Buck-with-th'-pants, how's yore liver?"

"Come up an irrigate, old tank!"