PAINTED ROCK
plaza. On the right side of it rose up the dark form of the gaol. Webb pointed at it presently with his finger.
"What's that calaboose for, Charlie? It's for hoboes, pore harmless hoboes, and a drunk Mexican, but the élite" (he called it eelight) "of crime don't go thataway. As I get old I'm more for law."
He sighed and rose.
"D'ye think I'd hev rode over to Red River if I'd bin young with a right hand, Charlie? Not by an entire barrel-full. I'd ha' bin Sheriff and City Marshal and desperado myself, and I'd ha' seen peace and law and order flourishing like timothy in an irrigated cultivation patch, flourishing right here in Painted Rock."
He walked across the plaza homeward.
Next morning I met young Bob White on Main Street, where he worked in a store which sold everything from candy to coffins.
"Did the Colonel tell you?" asked Bob. "He did so, I'll bet. This is a great show we'll have, Charlie. Jest think of the old
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