"Small loss 'tw'u'd be to anny wan. A divil iv a desp'rado yez are, wid yer gun an' all! I'm a good mind to swipe yez over th' nut wid me lanthern an' take ut away from yez!"

McHale drew the weapon gently, and spun it on his finger, checking the revolutions six times with startling suddenness. Mr. Quilty watched him sourly.

"Play thricks!" he commented. "Spin a gun! Huh! Why don't yez get a job wid a dhrama that shows the West as it used to wasn't? I knowed wan iv thim gun twirlers wanst. He was a burrd pluggin' tomatty cans an'

such--a fair wonder he was. But wan day he starts to make a pinwheel iv his finger forninst a stranger he mistakes fer a tindherfut, an' he gets th' face iv him blowed in be a derringer from that same stranger's coat pocket."

"Sure," McHale agreed. "It was comin' to him. He should have stuck to tomatter cans. Them plays is plumb safe."

"They's no safe play wid a gun," Mr. Quilty declared oracularly. "I'm an owlder man nor ye, an' I worked me way West wid railway construction. I knowed th' owld-time gunmen--the wans they tell stories of. Where are they now? Dead, ivery mother's son iv thim, an' most iv thim got it from a gun. No matther how quick a man is, if he kapes at ut long enough he meets up wid some felly that bates him till it--wanst. And wanst is enough.

"Plenty," McHale agreed. "Sure. The system is not to meet that sport. I don't figure he lives in these parts."

Mr. Quilty blinked at him for a moment, and lowered his voice. "See, now, b'y," said he, "I'm strong for mindin' me own business, but a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. n.o.body's been hurted hereabouts yet, but keep at ut and some wan will be. I don't want ut to be you or Casey. Go aisy, like a good la-ad."

"I'm easy as a fox-trot," said McHale. "So's Casey. We ain't crowdin'

nothin'. Only we're some tired of havin' a hot iron held to our hides.

We sorter hate to smell our own hair singein'. We ain't on the prod, but we don't aim to be run off our own range, and that goes as it lies."

He rose, flipping his cigarette through the open window, and inquired for freight. They were expecting a binder and a mower. These had not arrived. McHale looked at the date of his bill of lading, and stated his opinion of the railway.

"Be ashamed, bawlin' out me employers in me prisince," said Mr. Quilty.

"G'wan out o' here, before I take a shotgun to yez."

"Come up and have a drink," McHale invited.

"Agin' the rules whin on duty," Quilty refused. "An' I do be on duty whiniver I'm awake. 'Tis prohibition the comp'ny has on me, no less."

McHale rode up the straggling street to Shiller's hotel, and dismounted. Bob Shiller in shirt sleeves sat on the veranda.

"They's a right smart o' dust to-day, Bob," said McHale. "S'pose we sorter sprinkle it some."

"We'll go into one of the back rooms, where it's cooler," proposed Shiller.

"Oh, I'd just as soon go to the bar," said McHale. "Might be some of the boys there. I like to lean up against the wood."

"Well----" Shiller began, and stopped uncertainly.

"Well--what?" McHale demanded.

"Just as well you don't go into the bar right now," Shiller explained.

"You had a sort of a run-in with a feller named Cross, hadn't you--you or Casey? He's in there with a couple of his friends--hard-lookin'

nuts. He's some tanked, and shootin' off his mouth. We'll have Billy bring us what we want where it's cooler."

McHale kicked a post meditatively three times.

"There's mighty little style about me, Bob," he said. "I'm democratic a lot. Havin' drinks sent up to a private room looks to me a heap like throwin' on dog."

"I asked you," said Shiller. "It's my house. The drinks are on me."

"I spoke of the dust," McHale reminded him. "That makes it my drinks.

And then I done asked a man to meet me in the bar. I wouldn't like to keep him waitin'."

"I don't want trouble here," said Shiller positively. "I ask you in a friendly way not to make it."

"Well, I ain't makin' it, am I?" said McHale. "That's all right about not wantin' trouble, but I got other things to think of. This here Cross and Dade and that bunch don't run the country. Mighty funny if I have to drink in a back room for them gents. Next thing you'll want me to climb a tree. I'm allowin' to stop my thirst facin' a mirror with one foot on a rail. I'll do it that way, or you and me won't be friends no more."

"Go to it, then," said Shiller. "You always was a bullhead."

McHale grinned, hitched his holster forward a trifle, and walked toward the bar. As he entered he took a swift survey of its half dozen occupants.

Three of them were regulars, citizens of Coldstream. The others were strangers, and each of them wore a gun down his thigh. They were of the type known as "hard-faced." Cross, a gla.s.s in his right hand, was standing facing the door. As it pushed open he turned his head and stared at McHale, whom he did not immediately recognize.

"Come on, friend," said he; "get in on this."

"Sure," said McHale promptly. "A little number nine, Billy. Here's a ho!" He set his gla.s.s down, and faced Cross. "Come again, boys. What'll you take with me?"

But Cross swore suddenly. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Look at what blowed in off of one of them dry-ranch layouts!"

McHale smiled blandly, pushing a bottle in his direction.

"Beats all how some things drift about all over the country," he observed. "Tumbleweeds and such. They go rollin' along mighty gay till they b.u.mp into a wire fence somewheres."

"It's sure a wonder to me your boss lets you stray this far off," said Cross, with sarcasm. "He needs a man to look after him the worst way.

He don't seem to have no sand. I met up with him along our ditch a while back, and I told him to hike. You bet he did. Only that he'd a girl with him I'd have run him clean back to his reservation."

"You want to get a movin'-picture layout," McHale suggested. "That'd make a right good show--_you_ runnin' Casey. You used to work for one of them outfits, didn't you?"

"No. What makes you think I did?"

"Your face looked sorter familiar to me," McHale replied. "Studyin' on it, it seems like I'd seen it in one of them picture shows down in Cheyenne. Right good show, too. It showed a bunch of boys after a hoss thief. He got away."

"Haw-haw!" laughed one of the regulars, and suddenly froze to silence.

Billy, behind the bar, stood as if petrified, towel in hand. Cross's face, flushed with liquor, blackened in a ferocious scowl.

"You ---- ---- ----!" he roared. "What do you mean by that?"

"Mean?" asked McHale innocently. "Why, I was tellin' you about a show I seen. What's wrong with that?"

"You called me a horse thief!" cried Cross.

"Who? Me?" said McHale. "Why, no, Mr. Cross, you ain't no hoss thief. I know different. If anybody says you are, you just send him right along to me. No, sir; I know you ain't. There's two good reasons against it."

Cross glared at him, his fingers beginning to twitch.

"Let's hear them," he said. "If they ain't good you go out of that door feet first."

"They're plumb good--best you ever heard," McHale affirmed. "Now, listen. Here's how I know you ain't no hoss thief: For one thing, you got too much mouth; and for another you ain't got the nerve!"

Out of the dead silence came Shiller's voice from the door: