might be two of the name, the age, the looks--though it ain't likely."
Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:

"Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?"

"I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I've heard that he left
after a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner's name
was Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye,
there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized; he
has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caught
Williams' bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why he
had to leave Missouri I don't know, if Williams drew first."

"I'm satisfied now," said my companion, "but I guess you hain't got that
story correct; maybe you don't know the cause of it nor how it began;
maybe Williams didn't draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the way
through; maybe--but thar!--the first hand don't decide everythin'. Your
Sheriff's the man--that's enough for me."

After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridge
leading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standing
about. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me a
little. But I said nothing. We had scarcely passed over half the length
of the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty men
lounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explain the
matter to myself, Williams spoke: "I guess he's got out all the
vigilantes;" and then bitterly: "The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn't
believe this ef I told it on him, the doggoned mean cuss."

We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster over