ive repose.
His always bloodshot eyes were speculative as he surveyed the
smoke-laden scene from behind his shabby bar. The place was full of
drinkers and gamblers. The hour was past midnight. And he was
estimating silently the further spending possibilities of his
customers, and consequently considering the advisability of closing
down.

A group of three ranch hands leaned against the centre of the bar.
Their glasses were empty and none of them seemed anxious to command
their refilling. They were talking earnestly. And their voices were
unusually modulated. Just beyond these a slight, good-looking man in
chapps, with a face of particularly refined but somewhat debauched
appearance, was obviously interested in their talk, although he took no
part in it. On the other side of them, away at the far end of the bar,
leaned a solitary, tough-looking drinker, who seemed to take no
interest whatever in his surroundings. Every man in the place, the
dozen or so occupying the card tables included, was fully armed in the
customary fashion prevailing in this distant corner of the ranching
world, and it would have needed no second thought to realize that these
heavy, loaded weapons were not by any means intended for decorative
purposes.

"Wal, anyways they're a long time fixin' things," observed one of the
three at the centre of the bar, with a yawn that displayed a double row
of gleaming white teeth. "The boss guessed I'd best wait around, so it
ain't a heap o' use kickin'. I'll hev to wait till the durned
committee's through, if it takes 'em sittin' as long us a hide-bound
hen."

"It's allus that-a-way when folks gets on a committee racket, Curly,"
replied one of his friends with a sympathetic grin.

"That's just how, Dan," agreed the third. "Hot air. That's what it
is. This tarnation Vigilance stunt sets folk whisperin' among
'emselves 'bout the hell goin' to be ladled out to all cattle thieves
in general. Gives 'em visions of hangin'-bees, an' a sort o' firework
display with guns an' things, an' when they hatched out, what's the
result? Why, a waste o' hot air, an'--no checkens."

"'T'so, Dan," agreed Curly, with easy decision. "The boss is too near
relative of a fancy gentleman for to hand out the sort o' dope rustlers
need. If us boys had the job we'd fix things quick. You'd see this
bum gang kicking air at the end of a rope 'fore Ju, here, had time to
dope out four fingers of rotgut at the expense of t