“Whoa, there!  Yeh imp of hell!” he rasped, in tones loud enough to account for the commotion among the horses, and slipping the knife into his pocket, entered the saloon from which he emerged unobserved while the boisterous crowd was refilling its glasses at the solicitation of a white goods drummer who had been among the first to accept the invitation of the Mayor.

Three doors up the street he entered a rival saloon where the bartender was idly arranging his glasses on the back-bar in anticipation of the inevitable rush of business which would descend upon him when the spirit should move the crowd in the Long Horn to start “going the rounds.”

“Hello, Cinnabar!” The cowpuncher leaned an elbow on the bar, elevated a foot to the rail, and producing tobacco and a book of brown papers, proceeded to roll a cigarette.  The bartender returned the greeting and shot the other a keen glance from the corner of his eye as he set out a bottle and a couple of glasses.

“Be’n down to the wreck?” he asked, with professional disinterestedness.  The cowpuncher nodded, lighted his cigarette, and picking the bottle up by the neck, poured a few drops into his glass.  “Pretty bad pile-up,” persisted the bartender as he measured out his own drink.  “Two or three of the train crew got busted up pretty bad.  They say——­

“Aw, choke off!  What the hell do I care what they say?  Nor how bad the train crew got busted up, nor how bad they didn’t?” Purdy tapped the bar with his glass as his black eyes fixed the other with a level stare.  “I came over fer a little talk with yeh, private.  I’m a-goin’ to win that buckin’ contest—­an’ yer goin’ to help me—­sabe?”

The bartender shook his head:  “I don’t know how I c’n help you none.”

“Well yeh will know when I git through—­same as Doc Godkins’ll know when I have a little talk with him.  Yer both a-goin’ to help, you an’ Doc.  Yeh see, they was a nester’s gal died, a year back, over on Beaver Crick, an’ Doc tended her.  ‘Tarford fever,’ says Doc.  But ol’ Lazy Y Freeman paid the freight, an’ he thinks about as much of the nesters as what he does of a rattlesnake.  I was ridin’ fer the Lazy Y outfit, an’ fer quite a spell ‘fore this tarford fever business the ol’ man use to ride the barb wire along Beaver, reg’lar.  Yeh know how loose ol’ Lazy Y is with his change?  A dollar don’t loom no bigger to him than the side of Sugar Loaf Butte, an’ it slips through his fingers as easy as a porkypine could back out of a gunnysack.  Well, that there dose of tarford fever that the nester gal died of cost ol’ Lazy Y jest a even thousan’ bucks.  An’ Doc Godkins got it.”

The cowpuncher paused and the bartender picked up his glass.  “Drink up,” he said, “an’ have another.  I do’no what yer talkin’ about but it’s jest as bad to not have enough red licker in under yer belt when y’ go to make a ride as ’tis to have too much.”

“Never yeh mind about the licker.  I c’n reg’late my own drinks to suit me.  Mebbe I got more’n a ride a-comin’ to me ’fore tonight’s over.”