CHAPTER III


SILENT SHOOTS

It was a great day and also a sad one for Morgan. His general store
and saloon had been bought out by old Joe Cumberland, who declared
a determination to clear up the landscape, and thereby plunged the
cowpunchers in gloom. They partially forgave Cumberland, but only
because he was an old man. A younger reformer would have met armed
resistance. Morgan's place was miles away from the next oasis in the
desert and the closing meant dusty, thirsty leagues of added journey
to every man in the neighbourhood. The word "neighbourhood," of
course, covered a territory fifty miles square.

If the day was very sad for this important reason, it was also very
glad, for rustling Morgan advertised the day of closing far and wide,
and his most casual patrons dropped all business to attend the big
doings. A long line of buckboards and cattle ponies surrounded the
place. Newcomers gallopped in every few moments. Most of them did not
stop to tether their mounts, but simply dropped the reins over the
heads of the horses and then went with rattling spurs and slouching
steps into the saloon. Every man was greeted by a shout, for one or
two of those within usually knew him, and when they raised a cry
the others joined in for the sake of good fellowship. As a rule he
responded by ordering everyone up to the bar.