of smoke curling far out on the horizon--a dozen miles--northeast of
Eagle Butte.

"Seventeen's comin'," he remarked to the trio of idlers leaning against
the side of the building; "guess I'd better go over an' see who's on
her," moving as he spoke out into the sizzling glare of the almost
deserted street. Glancing toward the east his eyes fastened on a cloud
of dust whirling rapidly along the road that came from the direction of
the lower Cimarron.

"Gosh, lookey yonder," he muttered, "that must be Old Heck drivin' his
new automobile--th' darn fool is goin' to bust something some day,
runnin' that car the way he does!"

Walking quickly, to escape the heat, he crossed the street to the
station.

Two minutes later the cloud of dust trailed a rakish, trim-lined,
high-powered, purring Clagstone "Six" to a stop in front of the
Occidental Hotel and Old Heck and Skinny Rawlins climbed glumly and
stiffly from the front seat, after the thirty-minute, twenty-mile run
from the Quarter Circle KT.

Old Heck had his peculiarities. One of them was insistence for the
best--absolutely or nothing. The first pure-bred, hot-blood stallions
turned on the Kiowa range carried the Quarter Circle KT brand on their
left shoulders. He wanted quality in his stock and spent thousands of
dollars importing bulls and stallions to get it. When the automobile
came it was the same. No jit for the erratic owner of the last big
genuine cow-ranch on the Cimarron. Consequently the beautiful car--a car