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