CHAPTER IV

CINNABAR JOE

In the dining car of the side-tracked train Alice Marcum's glance
strayed from the face of her table companion to the window. Another
cavalcade of riders had swept into town and with a chorus of wild yells
the crowd in the Long Horn surged out to greet them. A moment later
the dismounted ones rushed to their horses, leaped into the saddles
and, joined by the newcomers, dashed at top speed for perhaps thirty
yards and dismounted to crowd into another saloon across whose front
the word HEADQUARTERS was emblazoned in letters of flaming red.

"They're just like a lot of boys," exclaimed the girl with a smile,
"The idea of anybody mounting a horse to ride _that_ distance!"

"They're a rough lot, I guess." Winthrop Adams Endicott studied his
menu card.

"Rough! Of course they're rough! Why shouldn't they be rough? Think
of the work they do--rain or shine, riding out there on the plains.
When they get to town they've earned the right to play as they want to
play! I'd be rough, too, if I lived the life they live. And if I were
a man I'd be right over there with them this minute."

"Why be a man?" smiled Endicott. "You have the Mayor's own word for
the breadth of Wolf River's ideas. As for myself, I don't drink and
wouldn't enjoy that sort of thing. Besides, if I were over there I