He ran across the Sheriff of the County on the street and the official hailed and stopped him.
"Hear they're makin' rotgut booze over Metzal way, Sheridan," he said. "Federal man's here, stirring me up about it. Though I 'low it's his bizness. But, if they do bootleg, it ought to be decent stuff, not corked lightnin'. Know enny thing of it? You aim to run a sober ranch, I reckon."
Things were breaking well, thought Sheridan. The idea of Vasquez going on unpunished had worried him.
"If you can catch him with the goods," he said, "the man you want to get after is Vasquez. He has a shack just west of Metzal, and they tell me he brews poison. I never sampled it. But—"
"I've heard of the gent," replied the sheriff. "Thanks for the tip. A rattlesnake buzzes afore he pizens you, but this Vasquez charges you for killin' you, I reckon. There'll be action his way afore long."
Sheridan's last errand was with the County Commissioner of Deeds. He had done business with him before but his present mission was not on his own account. He did not imagine that Mary Burrows' grandfather had troubled to file on the Hidden Homestead. Probably no one suspected the existence of such a charming bowl of the mountains, but some one might discover it sooner or later, and covet it. The girls might be dispossessed, at the best, put to the cost and vexation of a suit.
He liked the Commissioner, as he liked many men in Pioche. It was a go-ahead town, with its
