Moore stared aghast.  “What?  A pilgrim done that?  Not on yer life!  He may look an’ act like a pilgrim but, take it from me, he’s a desperate character if he got Purdy after he draw’d.  It’s worser than if it was Tex. He might of took pity on us, knowin’ about the fambly.  But a stranger, an’ one that kin git a man like Jack Purdy!  O-o-o-o, my stummick!  Bat, I’m ‘fraid I’m a-passin’ away!  These spells is a-killin’ me—­an’ what’ll become of the woman an’ the kids?”

The half-breed grinned:  “Mebbe-so you kin’ pass back agin, Sam.  He ain’ got no gun.”

Sam Moore ceased to writhe, and sat abruptly erect.  “Ain’t got no gun!” he exclaimed.  “What did he shoot Purdy with?”

“My gun.  He giv’ it back to me.  A’m bor’ heem dat gun li’l while ago.”

The deputy sprang to his feet.  “Quick, now, Bat!” he roared loudly.  “You slip these irons on him, an’ I’ll catch up the horses.  Don’t take no chances!” He tossed the half-breed a pair of hand-cuffs, and started after his own horse.  “Kill him if he makes a crooked move.  Tell him you’re actin’ under my authority an’ let him understand we’re hard men to tamper with—­us sheriffs.  We don’t stand fer no foolin’.”

In Curly Hardee’s dance-hall Tex Benton leaned against the wall and idly watched the couples weave in and out upon the floor to the whining accompaniment of the fiddles and the clanging piano.

Apparently the cowboy’s interest centred solely upon the dancers, but a close observer would have noticed the keen glance with which he scanned each new arrival—­noticed too, that after a few short puffs on a cigarette the man tossed it to the floor and immediately rolled another, which is not in the manner of a man with a mind at ease.

The Texan saw Endicott enter the room, watched as the man’s eyes swept the faces of dancers and spectators, and smiled as he turned toward the door.

“Three of us,” mused the cowboy, with the peculiar smile still twisting the corners of his lips, “Purdy, an’ me, an’ the pilgrim.  Purdy’s work’s so coarse he’ll gum his own game, an’ that’s where I come in.  An’ the pilgrim—­I ain’t quite figgered how he stacks up.”  The cowpuncher glanced at his watch.  “It’s time they showed up long ago.  I wonder what’s keepin’ em.”  Suddenly he straightened himself with a jerk:  “Good Lord!  I wonder if——­ But no, not even Purdy would try that.  Still, if he knows I know he tried to dope me he’ll be figgerin’ on pullin’ his freight anyhow, an’—­” The man’s lips tightened and, elbowing his way to the door he stepped onto the street and hurried to the Headquarters saloon.  Cinnabar Joe was behind the bar, apparently none the worse for his dose of chloral, and in answer to a swift signal, followed the Texan to the rear of the room.

“Does Purdy know I’m wise to his dope game?”

The bartender nodded:  “Yes, I told him you must of switched the glasses.”