Presently the paper sagged. He began to nod, fell asleep. When he opened his eyes again it was late in the afternoon. His watch told him that it was just six o'clock.
He got up, took off the buckskin suit that had served him for a uniform, and donned once more the jeans and chaps he had worn as a line-rider.
"Good-bye, Mr. Ranger," he told himself. "I reckon you can't have much worse luck as a citizen than as an officer."
He buckled round his waist the belt that held his revolvers, and from the corner of the room where it stood took his rifle. Carrying the supplies he had that afternoon bought, he directed his steps to the Elephant Corral and saddled his horse. With motions of deft economy he packed the provisions for travel, then swung to the saddle and cantered down the street.
At the post-office corner he swung to the left for a block and dismounted in front of a rather large dugout.
A wrinkled little man with a puzzled, lost-puppy look on his face sat on a bench in front mending a set of broken harness.
"'Lo, Tex. How they comin'?" he asked.
"'Lo, Yorky. Hope I see you well," drawled the horseman, a whimsical twitch of humor at the corner of his mouth. He was swinging his lariat carelessly as cowboys do.
"Jes' tol'able. I got a misery in my left shoulder I'm a-goin' to try some yerbs I done had recommended." Yorky was the kind of simple soul who always told you just how he was when you asked him.
Roberts passed him and led the way into the house. "Come inside, Yorky, I want to talk with you," he said.
The room into which the cowboy had passed was a harness shop. It was littered with saddles and bridles and broken bits of traces. A workman's bench and tools were in one corner of the shop. A door, bolted and padlocked, led to a rear room.
Jack put down his rifle and his belt on a shelf and sat down on the bench.
"Yore prisoner's in there all right," said the saddler with a jerk of his thumb over his left shoulder.
Since no one else in town would take the place, Yorky had been unanimously chosen jailer. He did not like the job, but it gave him an official importance that flattered his vanity.
"He's not my prisoner any more, Yorky. He's yours. I quit being a Ranger just twenty-five minutes ago."
"You don't say! Well, I reckon you done wise. A likely young fellow--"
"Where's yore six-shooter?" demanded Jack.