"Yes; hell of a lucky town," he snorted bitterly, listening for the riot
to begin.
The marshal still sat against the corral gate and stroked the Winchester
in beatific contemplation. He had a fine job and he was happy. Suddenly
leaning forward to look up the road, he smiled derisively and shifted
the gun. A cow-puncher was coming his way rapidly, and on foot.
"Are you the marshal of this flea of a town?" politely inquired the
newcomer.
"I am the same," replied the man with the rifle. "Anything I kin do for
you?"
"Yes; have you seen a piebald cayuse straying around loose-like, or
anybody leading one--CG being the brand?"
"I did; it was straying."
"An' which way did it go?"
"Into the town pound."
"What! Pond! What'n blazes is it doing with a pond? Couldn't it drink
without getting in? Where's the pond?"
"Right here. It's eating its fool head off. I said pound, not pond.
P-o-u-n-d; which means that it's pawned, in hock, for destroying the
vegetation of Rawhide, an' disturbing the public peace."
"Good joke on the piebald, all right; it was never locked up before,"
laughed Fisher, trying to read a sign that faced away from him at a
slight angle. "Get it out for me an' I'll disturb _its_ peace. Sorry it
put you to all that trouble," he sympathized.
"Two dollars an' four bits, an' a dollar initiation fee--it wasn't never
in the pound before.
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