"Stand him a drink," came a voice.

"Lynch him," suggested another.

"Push his daylights in!"

"Dip him in the lake!"

"Invite him up home and treat him to a boiled egg!"

"Forget it!"

Various were the suggestions thrown out, gratis, to DeRue Hannington's query, for all of them knew that he was crazy over horseflesh in general and particularly over the pure white thoroughbred he had got from Rattlesnake Dalton the day he closed the deal and became owner of the good-for-nothing Lost Durkin Gold Mine.

Whether or not DeRue Hannington considered that he had been defrauded in the matter of the mine still remained for him to test out, but the white horse was certainly a beauty, and her owner was never so happy as when careering down Main Street or over the ranges astride of her.

"By gad!--lynching is not half severe enough," fumed the Englishman.

"You chaps are all jolly fond of horses. That is why I dropped in. It is an out and out beastly shame. The scoundrel should be horse-whipped and run out of town."

"Say, sonny!--why don't you tell us what'n-the-h.e.l.l's the matter with your blinkin' hoss, 'stead o' jumpin' up and down like a chimpanzee, and makin' us dizzy watchin' yer?" asked a hardened old bar-lounger.

"Stand still and let me lean my eyes up against somethin' steady for a minute."

This brought DeRue Hannington to himself.

"Come out here, gentlemen, and see for yourselves!" he invited.

"Everybody come and have a look. I have her outside. A beastly, dirty, rotten shame;--that's what I call it, and if there is any bally justice in this Valley, I am going to see it jolly-well performed; by George, I am!"

The idly curious crowd gathered to the doorway after Hannington. In a few seconds thereafter, the wildest shouts of laughter and a medley of caustic remarks caused Phil to get up to see what it all was about.

At the door, he looked over the heads of those on the lower steps of the veranda, and there on the sidewalk stood the dejected Hannington holding the bridle of what might have been a huge zebra gone wild on the colour scheme, or an advertis.e.m.e.nt for a barber's shop.

It was evidently DeRue Hannington's white thoroughbred, but white no longer. Phil went out to make a closer inspection.

What a sight she presented! She had been painted from head to hoofs in broad stripes of red, white and blue. The white was her own natural colour, but the red and blue were a gaudy, cheap paint still partly wet. Nevertheless, the work was the work of an artist. The body was done in graceful, sweeping lines, while the legs were circled red, white and blue alternately down to each hoof. Even the animal's head was emblazoned in the most fantastic manner.

Phil laughed uproariously. He could not help it. None could--excepting possibly the man who owned the horse. To look at the animal gave one a sensation of dizziness.

The old bar-lounger, who had been so anxious to know what the trouble was about, was the first to give way under it.

"Holy mackinaw! I've got them again. Talk about seein' snakes," he cried, turning toward the saloon door and putting his hands over his eyes as if to shut out the sight, "hydrophobey, or delirious tremblin's ain't got nothin' on that. Say, Heck!--mix me up a drink o'

gasoline and Condy's Fluid, so's I kin forgit it."

"Only wan thing wrong wid her," exclaimed an Irish pig-breeder from Tipperary; "she should 'a' been painted Emerild Green."

"Yes,--or maybe Orange," commented his friend who hailed from Ulster.

But with Percival DeRue Hannington it was a serious crime and he was in no mood to see any humour in the situation.

"Gentlemen," he cried, as the crowd began to dwindle back, "I'll give one hundred dollars cash to any one of you who can tell me who did this. My offer holds good for a week."

At that particular moment, the offer of a bribe did not bring to the fore any informers, so DeRue Hannington, riding a spare horse and leading his favourite by a halter rope, jogged his way homeward.

He had hardly gone the length of a block, when the comparative quiet of a respectable western saloon was again broken in upon. There was a clatter of hoofs outside which came to an abrupt stoppage; a heavy scrambling on the wooden steps leading to the veranda which ran round the hotel, an encouraging shout from a familiar voice, a clearing of pa.s.sageway;--and Jim Langford, in all his gay trappings, still astride his well-trained horse, was occupying the middle of the bar-room floor, bowing profusely right and left to the astonished onlookers, making elaborate sweeps with his hat.

Everyone stopped, open-mouthed.

"What's this now!" shouted the long-suffering Charlie Mackenzie, the husky proprietor of the Kenora, as he came in from the dining-room.

"Good evening, good sir! It is Jim Langford, and very much at your service," came the gracious reply.

"Most of the time Jim Langford is welcome--but not when he don't know the dif' between a bar and a stable. Hop it now, and tie your little bull outside," was Mackenzie's ready retort.

"Boys!" cried Jim with a laugh, "we all know Charlie. He's a jolly good fellow, which n.o.body can deny;--and all that sort of thing;--but we're thirsty.

"Hands up--both hands--who wants a drink?"

Half a hundred hands shot in the air.

Jim's mood changed like a summer's day before a thunder plump. He pulled a gun. "Keep them there or I'll blow your heads off," he shouted dramatically.

And every hand stayed decorously and obediently above its owner's head.

Suddenly Jim laughed and threw his gun on the floor.

"Scared you all stiff that time! The gun's empty--not a cartridge in it.

"Come on, fellows! This is on me. Line up and get it over.

"Buck up, Charlie! Get your gang busy. I'm paying the piper."

Phil kept fairly well in the background, but drew closer to the lea of the others. He caught Jim's eye once, and he fancied he detected the faintest flicker of a wink; but, otherwise, Jim's face remained inscrutable.

Sitting easily on his horse, he pulled out a roll of bills and tossed over the cost of the treat to Mackenzie.

"Listen, fellows!" said he, leaning over in his saddle, "this is my last long bat. Next time you see me on the tear, shoot me on sight."

He pulled out his watch.

"Five minutes to nine! Say,--you'll have to excuse me; I've an appointment with a lady friend for nine o'clock."

Someone laughed.

"What the devil are you laughing at? I said a _lady_; and I meant it.

Now, darn you,--laugh!" he taunted.

The laugh didn't come.

"Ho, Charlie! What do your windows cost?" he asked, pointing to those fronting the main street.

"Want to buy a window?" grinned the fleshy hotel-keeper.