“You’re sworn in,” observed the sheriff. “Now I’ll tip yuh off on how to live—bein’ a deputy sheriff—in Helada. The first thing is, never put yuh back to a door, or a window that somebody can shoot through. The second is, shoot first. The third is, don’t b’lieve all yuh hear.”

“Sounds right simple,” conceded Sonny. “But what’s the situation gen’rally, that calls for all them precautions?”

“They’ll tell yuh I’m rustlin’,” said the sheriff grimly.

Sonny blinked and looked up from the cigarette he was rolling. He studied the sheriff’s face. His eyes dropped to the sheriff’s hand, clenched fiercely upon the desk.

“And are yuh?” he asked.

“No,” said the sheriff. His tone was quiet enough, but the knuckles of his hand whitened. “The evidence against me is pretty good, just short of hangin’ evidence. I’d believe it against anybody else. So folks are layin’ traps for me instead of the real rustlers, an’ they’re gettin’ right lawless. One or two of ’em have tried t’ plug me.”

“An’ when you get a deputy,” said Sonny, “folks figure you got him to help you rustle cattle, instead of helpin’ stop it. An’ his health gets poor, if not fatal.”

“That’s it,” said the sheriff grimly. “But you put on a pretty show of ridin’ Gunpowder. Most folks like a good rider. Maybe they’ll b’lieve I slipped up in takin’ yuh on. Maybe they’ll help you catch them rustlers when they won’t help me.”

Sonny twisted the end of his cigarette paper and put it in his mouth. He struck a match. “But,” he objected, “I might be in town t’ produce some more evidence sayin’ you was rustlin’. How d’you know?”

“I don’t,” admitted the sheriff, “but if y’are, I’ll plug you as sure as Gawd made li’l green apples!”

Sonny lit his cigarette and inhaled thoughtfully. “I think,” he said meditatively, “this is goin’ to be interestin’. Right interestin’. Bein’ suspected, you can’t find out anythin’. That’s up t’ me. If I find anythin’ ’gainst you, you’ll plug me. If I find anythin’ against anybody else, they’ll try t’ plug me.” He paused. “Right interestin’, Sheriff. I’ll mosey around an’ see what I can see.”

“Go ahead,” said the sheriff. “I’ll give yuh Gunpowder an’ my share of the rewards for the rustlers if yuh catch ’em. But if yuh ain’t in cahoots with ’em, you better not stan’ with your back to a door.”

Sonny went out, frowning thoughtfully. He stopped just outside the door and surveyed the town. Adobe houses, a few frame buildings with false fronts and a whitewashed jail. That was the town of Helada. Now the town was burning up with heat. A red hot sun glared down from a brazen sky. The cowponies hitched before the Jackrabbit saloon drooped beneath the glare. The horizon was rippling from the heat and all the world was like an oven. Not the barest breath of breeze was blowing.

“Helada,” murmured Sonny, “meanin’ ‘froze,’ is what I’d call a kinda sarcastic name for this town.”

He made his way toward the saloon, the fine alkali dust his feet kicked up rising nearly to his knees.

“An’ me takin’ a chance like this,” he added severely to himself, “with all that reward out for me! Just because of Gunpowder an’ kinda likin’ that sheriff. It’s foolish. But I never yet saw a man that clenched his fists while he was lyin’.”

He turned into the saloon and blinked in the sudden semi-darkness. A bald bartender polished glasses behind the bar. Flies buzzed somnolently against the ceiling. Four cowpunchers with a marked family resemblance to each other and the man who had been trying to ride Gunpowder that morning were lounging about a table.

Sonny’s features grew curiously hard as they looked at him. But no one gave a sign of recognition, except Buck.

Sonny waved his hand. “Folks,” he said pleasantly, “meet your new deputy sheriff. This here is the first town I ever rid into where anybody thought I was li’ble to stop trouble instead of startin’ it. The drinks are on me. Will yuh join me?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. They looked at each other. Then Buck, still stiff from his fall from Gunpowder, grinned. “I rec’n,” he admitted, “the drinks ought t’ be on me. You sure forked that hawss, stranger.”

“Thank you, suh,” said Sonny profoundly. “As my step-great-uncle, late Secretary of the Interior in General Grant’s cabinet, used t’ remark, the main thing in ridin’ a hawss is to stay on top. Here’s how.”

He put down his glass.

“Where you from?” asked one of the four brothers abruptly.

“Heaven is my home,” said Sonny, “an’ I’m a long ways off. Right now, though,” he added gently, “I’m representin’ the majesty of the law, an’ I’d say it was up to me to ask questions ’nstead of answerin’ ’em.”

The four brothers glanced at each other again. “You’ll last maybe a week,” said one, and buried his nose in his glass.

“Why?”

“Sheriff’ll shoot you,” said another.

“An’ if he don’t—” began a third.

Buck grinned again. “Somebody else prob’ly will. We’re right curious that way around here. There’s rustlin’ goin’ on. Folks say it’s bein’ directed from the sheriff’s office. You got ambitions in the way of rustlin’?”

“Not any,” said Sonny with ironical bitterness. “Holdin’ up stages is my line, they say. I’m pretty good at that, though, to hear ’em tell it.”

“Too bad,” said Buck. “If y’ don’t help the sheriff drive off a few head now an’ then, he’s likely t’ plug yuh. An’ if yuh do, somebody else is more than apt to sling some lead yore way.”

Sonny smiled. “When suggestin’,” he said gently, “that I might consider rustlin’ cattle, I’d be obliged if you’d smile. Real much obliged.”

Buck grinned once more while the others scowled a little.

“I’m smilin’,” said Buck.

The four brothers rose. “Rec’n we’ll be goin’,” said one curtly. His eyes turned upon Sonny. “S’long, in case we don’t see you any more.”

The others clattered out in his wake. Sonny frowned after them. “Seems like I’d ought t’ know them fellers,” he confessed, “but they didn’t know me. Who are they, anyways?”

“Name’s Jackson,” said Buck idly. “Four brothers. Come here a year or two ago. Own the Double H ranch an’ run it mostly by themselves. They run a couple thousand head, maybe more.”

Sonny frowned at his glass and twirled it absently in the wet spot it had made on the table.

“Say,” he said suddenly, “what have you folks got on the sheriff? He acted like a regular feller to me.”

Buck considered, and regarded Sonny thoughtfully for a little while. “He changed, I rec’n,” he said at last. “Folks used to think a lot of him. But all of a sudden some rustlin’ began that he couldn’t never catch up on. He seemed mighty vexed, he did, an’ rid his hawss’ hoofs off tryin’ to catch ’em, it seemed like. But all of a sudden there was a kinda raid on the Lazy L herds. Caldwell owns that ranch, an’ he himself come on his foreman shot plumb through the head with a .45-70 bullet. An’ the sheriff is the only man in the county has a .45-70 gun. See?”

Sonny nodded, twirling his glass thoughtfully.

“Then them Jackson fellers,” said Buck. “They lost four hundred head—pretty bad for them. They let one of their han’s go. Ham Curtis, it was. He come in an’ he got a job deputyin’. An’ a coupla weeks later the sheriff plugged him. Said he was pesterin’ a Mexican girl. The girl swore to it, too. Said that the sheriff was her preserver. But then the Jackson boys, they up an’ said that they’d turned Ham loose just to get that job an’ see if the sheriff was crooked. An’ they said Ham’d sent ’em word he had the goods on the sheriff. But he was shot before he could tell ’em anythin’. That looked kinda bad, too.”

“Pretty bad,” admitted Sonny. “Pretty bad.”

“An’ they foun’ some rustled cattle oncet in a li’l canyon,” Buck added, “with nobody around, but some fancy brandin’-irons in a cabin, an’ a pair of the sheriff’s ol’ pants was in there, too. The sheriff, he said he’d give ’em to a Mexican, but it looked rotten bad.”

“Right bad,” said Sonny dreamily, “but I happen t’ know somethin’——”

“An’ so,” Buck pointed out, “nobody believes the sheriff is so awful anxious to have them rustlers caught. The evidence against him bein’ in cahoots with ’em ain’t open-an’-shut, but it’s sure plentiful. And consequent, when he cottons to somebody, other folks look him over careful. You, f’r instance. The sheriff swore he wouldn’t never part with Gunpowder, though he couldn’t ride him. But when you blew in an’ rid him, why, the sheriff right away said he’d let yuh have him.”

“It looked like a set-up, huh?” said Sonny shortly. “Like I was one of that gang, that come in an’ rid Gunpowder for a gran’stan’ play, for an excuse to take a deputy’s badge? An’ me an’ the sheriff could pull off somethin’ real big in the rustlin’ line.”

“That’s it,” said Buck. He faced Sonny squarely. “I kinda liked the way you rid that hawss. If y’ don’t like the way I talk——”

“That’s all right,” said Sonny briefly. “Does anybody know where Gunpowder come from?”

“No.”

“Hm,” said Sonny. He tapped on the table. “If anybody asks about me, you c’n tell ’em that I’m not only goin’ after them rustlers, but I happen t’ know somethin’ that tells me right where t’ look. An’ I happen to know where Gunpowder——”