Liquor was still to be obtained at the general store. Provisions were occasionally teamed in and were made up of peculiarly conglomerate lots.

There were no women in Gophertown. There was little local gossip. There was no regular watch kept on the outlands. Gophertown felt secure in itself. Each man was his own argus. He was expected to know his enemies by instinct. He was expected, as a usual thing, to settle his disputes single-handed.

Silent Saunders was in the general store and saloon. He was disgusted in that he had been unable to induce the citizens to ride out with him and clean up Overland Red's claim. Overland had once been of them, even if briefly. He had been popular, especially as he was then the quickest man with a gun they had ever honored with their patronage. Also, the Gophertown folk had recently received a warning letter from the superintendent of a transcontinental railroad. They were not interested in Saunders's proposal.

Saunders, coming from the saloon, was not a little surprised to see a band of hors.e.m.e.n far out on the desert. He felt that their presence in his vicinity had something to do with himself. He counted the horses.

There were six of them. He knew instantly that the riders were cowmen, although he could not distinguish one from another. He beckoned to the saloon-keeper.

"We could 'a' stopped that," he said, pointing toward the desert.

"Big bunch. One--two--three--six of 'em. _Big_ bunch to come visitin'

here."

Saunders gestured toward the canon behind Gophertown.

The saloon-keeper shook his head. "Don't think most of our boys will be back this week. Brandin' that bunch of new stock. Takes time to do it right."

"Well, here comes Parks and Santa Fe Smith," said Saunders. "That makes four of us."

"Mebby--and mebby not," said the saloon-keeper. "That depends. Depends on the party that's callin' and who they're callin' _on_."

"There's Sago--just ridin' the ledge trail. That's five."

"'Lige and Joe Kennedy are up at the corrals," said the saloon-keeper.

"They would hate to miss anything like this."

"Mebby they won't, if that bunch gets past us," said Saunders.

"Seen the time when you could handle them alone, didn't you, Si?"

"Yes, and I can now."

"Nix, Si. Your gun arms ain't what they was sence Overland Red winged you."

"How in h.e.l.l do you know he did?"

"I could tell you more. But come on in and have one on the house. If I was you, I'd set with my back to the door and be taking a drink. Red Summers never shot a man in the back yet. If he's playin' for _you_, why, that gives you a chance to pull a gun."

"How about you?" queried Saunders.

"Me? None of my business. I'm here to push the booze."

"And you'll do your collectin' with a gun, or go broke, if it's Red Summers and his friends."

"Tryin' to scare me because you are?" asked the bartender.

"Red helped Kennedy out of a mix once. Kennedy is his friend."

"But Joe ain't here. What's gettin' into you? How do you know it is Red, anyway? You act queer."

"I got a hunch," said Saunders.

"Then you want to go into action quick, for when a gunman gets a hunch that he knows who is trailin' him, it's a bad sign."

Saunders drummed on the table with his fingers. The drink of liquor had restored his nerve. Perhaps the riders were not coming to visit him, after all. He rose and stepped to the door. The oncoming horses were near enough for him to distinguish the roan outlaw Yuma--Collie's horse.

Her rider's figure was only too familiar. Saunders fingered his belt.

Unbuckling it, he stepped back into the barroom and laid the two-holstered guns and the belt on the table.

Parks, from up in the canon, rode up, tied his pony, and strolled to the bar, nodding to Saunders. Following him came Santa Fe Smith, a bow-legged individual in sweater and blue jeans. He nodded to Saunders.

Presently Sago, the Inyo County outlaw, came in, wheezing and perspiring. Saunders stepped to the bar and called for "one all around."

As they drank two more ponies clattered up and 'Lige and Joe Kennedy joined the group at the bar. "Hutch and Simpson are comin' afoot," said Joe Kennedy.

"That leaves Wagner and the c.h.i.n.k to hear from," said the saloon-keeper.

"Wagner's sick. I don't know where the c.h.i.n.k is. Everybody seems to 'a'

got up in time for dinner, this mornin', eh?" And big Joe Kennedy laughed. "This here bar is right popular jest now."

"Goin' to be more popular," said the saloon-keeper.

"That so?" exclaimed several, facetiously.

"Ask Saunders there," said the saloon-keeper.

"Friends of yours, Silent?"

"Yes. Friends of mine."

"Whole six of 'em, eh?"

"Whole six of 'em."

"Well, we won't b.u.t.t in. We'll give you lots of room."

Saunders said nothing. He paid for the liquor, and, stepping to the table, sat with his back to the doorway. In front of him lay his guns, placed handily, but with studied carelessness. He leaned naturally on one elbow, as though half asleep. His hat was tilted over his brows.

From outside came the jingle of spurs and rein-chains and the distant sound of voices. Saunders began leisurely to roll a cigarette. He laid a few matches on the table. Several of the men at the bar grinned knowingly.

Then came the gritting of heels on the hardpacked trail and Overland Red stood in the doorway. "Mornin', gents--and Saunders," he said, glancing at the figure seated back toward him.

"h.e.l.lo, Red!" exclaimed Joe Kennedy. "Out early, ain't you. Have a drink."

"Not out too early. h.e.l.lo, Lusk!"

"How, Red," said the saloon-keeper.

"Where's your friends. Ask 'em in," said Kennedy.