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 around in red-eyed renunciation. "I was out of my head—it don't go. Give that paper back to me! I demand that paper!"

"I'm kind of used to hearin' your demands by now," said the sheriff, pushing forward, his chicken face with its long pale mustache looking like a face being offered on the end of a pole, his neck was stretched to such uncommon length. "I've got that paper, and I'm goin' to keep it."

"I demand that paper!" Withers repeated, unabashed by the peculiar turn of events that had placed him in a situation so ridiculous.

"I'm goin' to hand it in to the court, to be made a part of the record of this case," the sheriff informed him. "If you want it, go to court for it."

"It don't stand," Withers protested. "I'll law you to the limit!"

"Next time you make a dyin' statement, you danged old crook, go on and die," the sheriff advised.

The situation appealed to the railroad sense of humor.

"This is my dyin' statement!' somebody groaned.

"Go on and put it down!" another pleaded, in the exaggeration of mortal agony and remorse.

"I'm goin' down there and take them cows of mine," Withers announced.

He set his dusty, trampled old hat on the back of his head, glared around in defiance, sliding his belt to bring his gun in place for a quick draw. But there was not