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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"The Black Box"


The deputy produced it. Long Jim looked at it curiously and handed it
back.
"Guess the only other thing you want, then, is the man."
"Better produce him quickly," the deputy advised.
Jim turned away.
"Can't do it. He's beat it."
"You mean that you've let him go?"
"Let him go?" Jim repeated. "I ain't got no right to keep him. He took the
job on at a moment's notice and he left at a moment's notice. There's some
of your party after him, all right."
The deputies whispered to one another. The elder of the two turned around.
"Look here," he said to the cowboys, glancing around for Long Jim, who had
disappeared, "we've had about enough of your goings-on. I reckon we'll
take one of you back and see what seven days' bread and water will do
towards civilising you."
There was a little mutter. The deputies stood side by side. With an almost
simultaneous movement they had drawn their guns.
"Where's Long Jim?" the older one asked.
There was a sudden whirring about their heads. A lariat, thrown with
unerring accuracy, had gathered them both in its coil. With a jerk they
were drawn close together, their hands pinned to their side. Two cowboys
quickly disarmed them. Long Jim came sauntering round from the other side
of the range wagon, tightening the rope as he walked.
"Say, you've got a hell of a nerve, butting into a peaceable camp like
this. We ain't broke no laws. So you're a'going to civilise us, eh? Well,
Mister Harris, we can play that civilising game, too.


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