One man, however, received no more greeting than the slamming of the door behind him.  He was a tall, handsome fellow with tawny hair and a little smile of habit rather than mirth upon his lips.  He had ridden up on a strong bay horse, a full two hands taller than the average cattle pony, and with legs and shoulders and straight back that unmistakably told of a blooded pedigree.  When he entered the saloon he seemed nowise abashed by the silence, but greeted the turned heads with a wave of the hand and a good-natured “Howdy, boys!” A volley of greetings replied to him, for in the mountain-desert men cannot be strangers after the first word.

“Line up and hit the red-eye,” he went on, and leaning against the bar as he spoke, his habitual smile broadened into one of actual invitation.  Except for a few groups who watched the gambling in the corners of the big room, there was a general movement towards the bar.

“And make it a tall one, boys,” went on the genial stranger.  “This is the first time I ever irrigated Morgan’s place, and from what I have heard today about the closing I suppose it will be the last time.  So here’s to you, Morgan!”

And he waved his glass towards the bartender.  His voice was well modulated and his enunciation bespoke education.  This, in connection with his careful clothes and rather modish riding-boots, might have given him the reputation of a dude, had it not been for several other essential details of his appearance.  His six-gun hung so low that he would scarcely have to raise his hand to grasp the butt.  He held his whisky glass in his left hand, and the right, which rested carelessly on his hip, was deeply sunburned, as if he rarely wore a glove.  Moreover, his eyes were marvellously direct, and they lingered a negligible space as they touched on each man in the room.  All of this the cattlemen noted instantly.  What they did not see on account of his veiling fingers was that he poured only a few drops of the liquor into his glass.

In the meantime another man who had never before “irrigated” at Morgan’s place, rode up.  His mount, like that of the tawny-haired rider, was considerably larger and more finely built than the common range horse.  In three days of hard work a cattle pony might wear down these blooded animals, but would find it impossible to either overtake or escape them in a straight run.  The second stranger, short-legged, barrel-chested, and with a scrub of black beard, entered the barroom while the crowd was still drinking the health of Morgan.  He took a corner chair, pushed back his hat until a mop of hair fell down his forehead, and began to roll a cigarette.  The man of the tawny hair took the next seat.

“Seems to be quite a party, stranger,” said the tall fellow nonchalantly.

“Sure,” growled he of the black beard, and after a moment he added:  “Been out on the trail long, pardner?”

“Hardly started.”

“So’m I.”