resented the intrusion. Purdy jerked sharply at the reins of his own
horse which caused that animal to rear back and pull away.

"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