exploration of Jeremiah T. Jones' tabooed section. The town had begun to
grow wearisome and they were vastly relieved when they realized that the
rising sun would see them in the saddle and homeward bound, headed for
God's country, which was the only place for cow-punchers after all.

"Long way from the home port, ain't you, mates?" queried a tar of
Hopalong. Another seaman went to the bar to hold a short, whispered
consultation with the bartender, who at first frowned and then finally
nodded assent.

"Too far from home, if that's what yo're driving at," Hopalong replied.
"Blast these hard trails--my feet are shore on the prod. Ever meet my
side pardner? Johnny, here's a friend of mine, a salt-water puncher, an'
he's welcome to the job, too."

Johnny turned his head ponderously and nodded. "Pleased to meet you,
stranger. An' what'll you all have?"

"Old Holland, mate," replied the other, joining them.

"All up!" invited Hopalong, waving them forward. "Might as well do
things right or not at all. Them's my sentiments, which I holds
as proper. Plain rye, general, if you means me," he replied to the
bartender's look of inquiry.

He drained the glass and then made a grimace. "Tastes a little
off--reckon it's my mouth; nothing tastes right in this cussed town.
Now, up on our--" He stopped and caught at the bar. "Holy smoke! That's
shore alcohol!"