rurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring."

"And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up," he
continued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now." And he emptied
his glass and strode from the room.

Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair.
"Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring.
Pablo's whiskey is rotten."

The collector's long legs unfolded, and he sat up, yawning. "Jim Waring
isn't in town," he said as though to himself.

"Pat, you give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.

"Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cucumbers."

"You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line.
There isn't even the picture of a cucumber in this sun-blasted town."

"Isn't, eh? Look here!" And the lank man pulled open a drawer in the
desk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seed
catalogue, illustrated in glowing tints.

"Oh, I'll buy," laughed the assistant. "I reckon if I asked for a
picture of this man Waring that's wanted by those nickel-plated coyotes,
you'd fish it up and never sweat a hair."

"I could," said the collector, closing the drawer.