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A LITTLE GAME OF MONTE
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make your break and you'll get eighteen buckshot between your shoulder blades."

"Eighteen?" The Kid gave a little, sneering laugh. "That's too many to waste on a slim young fellow like me. But eighteen would be just a nice fit for a man of your size. It would be a joke if you happened to stop those eighteen buckshot yourself. Eh, Bob?"

Footsteps sounded in the hall. The door for a moment framed the impressive figure of Sheriff Pat Garrett, six feet four and a half inches tall, slightly stooped in the shoulders, dark clothes accentuating his slender frame that suggested careless strength, trousers tucked in a pair of high-heeled boots of soft leather, his face under his gray sombrero a mixture of iron sternness and good humour. With a cheery salutation he strode in. How was everything? Kid getting along all right? Old Man Goss sending in enough grub? Bueno, hombres. Only a few minutes to stay. Just wanted to see how things were going.

"I'm riding to White Oaks this morning, boys," he said to the deputies. "Got to see about the gallows. Get some timbers freighted over right away. Not much time left. Going to try to find a good carpenter, too."

"Hurry up with that gallows, Pat," remarked the Kid. "Ollinger can't sleep good till it's up."

"I'll be back to-morrow or next day," the sheriff added. "You boys be on your guard. Don't go to sleep on the job. Take no chances. I'm depending on you. My reputation's at stake."

"Rest your mind easy, Pat," replied Ollinger. "We'll answer for the Kid."

"So long, Billy."

"Adios, Pat."

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