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 out his gun in time. He held up a hand in token of pacific intention.

"If you've got any business with me, Colonel Withers, approach and state it," Tom requested.

"That's the cow jerry!" said one of the men.

"Sa-ay man!" the other marvelled, blowing the words out on a big breath, as for the close-cutting to the edge of some peril that had left him with his life.

Withers threw a quick glance over his shoulder to see what his men were doing, motioned them up, and rode forward, keeping his hand pretty close to his gun.

"Where's the man in charge of these cattle?" Withers demanded, scowling and gruff, his voice considerably bigger than his confidence that everything stood the way he'd like to have it there.

"Right here,' Tom replied.

"I mean the deputy sheriff. Where's he at?"

"You're lookin' at him," said Tom.

"Laylander, I don't want none of your damn jokin', if that's what you call a joke."

"It's just about as serious a piece of business as you ever was up against, Colonel Withers. Didn't the sheriff tell you he deputized me several days ago when the men he had watchin' my cattle quit?"

"Not on your life he never, the damn thief! Well, I've got a bill of sale for em. I'm here to take charge of these cattle as owner."

The two cowboys had come up. They sat looking at Tom in stupid wonder, leaving Cal Withers to figure