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young puncher was coming out of a saloon three doors up, and Pat asked him, “Could you tell us where the sheriff hangs out at?”
    The youth hiccoughed and blinked at them, then gestured up the street. “Turn to the left yonder an’ it’s half a block. Little ’dobe shack by itself. You can’t he’p but miss it if you look clost.”
    Pat thanked him and they went on.
    â€œWhat-for,” asked Ezra, “do we wanta see the sheriff ’bout?”
    Pat said, “Just to size him up … in case.” He led the way diagonally across the end of the street in front of the livery stable and down the side street indicated by the puncher. Halfway up the block he paused as the door of a small adobe house was opened at their left.
    The tall gangling figure of Joe Baines was outlined momentarily in the lighted doorway. He was turned sideways, talking over his shoulder to someone inside.
    Pat nudged Ezra and pulled him on a few steps to the deep shadow cast by a pepper tree. Baines closed the door and came down the path to the street, went briskly toward his livery stable.
    â€œDamned ol’ pryin’ coot,” Ezra muttered under his breath. “He’s been in puttin’ the sheriff onto us, Pat.”
    Pat said tranquilly, “I reckon he has.” He moved away from the pepper tree and up the path to the sheriff’s office with Ezra following him dubiously. He knocked once on the wooden door, then turned the knob and stepped over the threshold.
    The room was lighted by two kerosene lamps in wall brackets. There was a table in the center of the room, and a bulky man sat behind the table. He had a pile of old “ WANTED ” circulars in front of him and was industriously studying them as Pat walked in. He had a square jaw and cold eyes, but his face and body looked flabby.
    He stared up at Pat from under bushy gray brows and barked, “Well, Mister. What do you want?”
    Pat tipped his hat back on his forehead and stepped aside to let Ezra enter behind him. He said mildly, “You ain’t going to find us in that list, Sheriff. No matter what Joe Baines has been telling you.”
    The sheriff glanced down at the circulars uncertainly, then he gave a little start of surprise as he saw Ezra’s one-eyed and scarred visage. He leaned back and hooked broad thumbs in his belt and said truculently, “So you’re the two hombres that just hit town in a plumb hurry to get on south.”
    Pat said, “That’s right.” He hooked the toe of his boot under a straight wooden chair and pulled it forward, sat down and nodded to Ezra. “Rest yourself,” he said, “while we put the sheriff straight.”
    â€œI’d just as lief straighten him out with my fist in his face,” Ezra muttered sourly. “He ain’t got no call to look at me like that.”
    The Marfa sheriff swallowed hard and shifted his gaze to Pat Stevens.
    â€œThought we’d better drop in to keep you from makin’ a bad mistake,” Pat told him easily. “Seems like yore brother-in-law got the wrong idee about us tonight.”
    The sheriff said, “Maybe. Maybe not.”
    â€œHappens we ain’t dodgin’ no posse. We’re headin’ into the Big Bend on a stock-buying trip.”
    â€œKillin’ hawses to get there?” sneered the sheriff.
    â€œWe ain’t killed any yet.” Pat paused to roll a cigarette. “You know the Katie spread near Hermosa?”
    The sheriff’s eyes flickered from Pat to Ezra’s impassive face, then back again. “Sure,” he said gruffly. “Everybody in Texas knows the Katie outfit. That Rollins gal has been givin’ me fits ever since her old man died last year.”
    Pat lit his cigarette and flipped the match away. It lit, still burning, on top of the pile of old circulars on the desk.
    The sheriff brushed it off hastily and glowered at Pat.
    Pat shifted