IN keeping with precedent, that ancestor worship of courts and lawyers, and all attendant upon the ponderous machinery which they revolve, the sale of Tom Laylander's cattle was held at noon, from the west steps of the county court house, on the appointed day. Cal Withers was the only bidder. The sheriff gave him the required evidence of ownership, and sent him off to claim his own.
Before holding the sale the sheriff had taken a private scout to the range to find whether Tom Laylander had come to his senses and gone off to Texas with the herd. He found Tom a few miles out of town, faithful to his trust, the cattle beginning to look sleek and fit, the biggest bargain for a judgment of ten thousand dollars and costs that a man was likely to run across in a lifetime.
The sheriff pretended to be greatly relieved to find the cattle still within his jurisdiction.
"I've been so busy I couldn't run out to locate you before," he explained, "but I had a wild feelin' in me
