posely as a notification of peaceful and honorable intentions, until the sharp challenge of a hidden sentry checked both it and his horse.
"Sheriff Corwin," he answered. "What you holdin' me up for?"
A man stepped out of the cover at the edge of the trail. "Got a match?" he pleasantly asked, the rifle hanging from the crook of his arm, both himself and the weapon hidden from the sheriff by the darkness. "Where you goin' so late? Thought everybody was asleep but me."
Corwin handed him the match. "Just ridin' down to see McCullough. Got important business with him, an' reckoned it shouldn't wait 'til mornin'."
The sentry rolled a cigarette and lit it with the borrowed match in such a way that the sheriff's face was well lighted for the moment, but he did not look up. "That's good," he said. "Reckon I'll go along with you. No use hangin' 'round up here, an' I'm shore sleepy. Wait till I get my cayuse," and he disappeared, soon returning in the saddle. His quiet friend in the brush settled back to resume the watch and to speculate on how long it would take his companion to return.
McCullough, half undressed, balanced himself as he heard approaching voices, growled profanely and put the freed leg in the trousers. He was ready for company when one of the night shift stuck his head in at the door.
"Sheriff Corwin wants to see you," said the puncher. "His business is so delicate it might die before mornin'."
"All right," grumbled the trail-boss. "If you get out of his way mebby he can come in."
Corwin stood in the vacated door, smiling, but too wise
