so some saddle hosses for you."

"I'll buy a horse," interposed Pan.

"You'll do nothin' of the sort," declared Blinky stoutly. "Ain't we
got a string of hosses, an' there shore might be _one_ of them good
enough even for Panhandle Smith. But you want a saddle. There's one
in Black's store. It's Mexican, an' a blamed good one. Cheap, too."

Gus came trotting up on a spirited sorrel, leading two other
well-pointed horses, saddled, champing their bits. Sight of them was
good for Pan's eyes. He would never long have been happy away from
horses. Moran leaped astride one of them, and then said, hesitatingly:

"Pard, shore hope you hev good luck findin' your dad."

Pan watched them ride away down the slope to the road, and around a
bend out of sight. It was wonderful country that faced him, cedar,
pinon and sage, colored hills and flats, walls of yellow rock stretch
away, and dim purple mountains all around. If his keen eyes did not
deceive him there was a bunch of wild horses grazing on top of the
first hill.

"Juan, are there lots of wild horses?" he asked the Mexican cook. And
presently he came into knowledge of the justice of the name "Lying
Juan." Pan had met some great liars in his life on the range, but if
Juan could do any better than this he would be the champion of them all.

Pan shaved, put on a clean flannel shirt and new scarf, and leaving his
coat behind he strode off toward the town. The business of the day had
begun, and there was considerable bustle. Certainly Marco showed no
similarity to a cattle town. Somebody directed him to the stage and
express office, a plain board building off the main street. Three men
lounged before it, one on the steps, and the others against the
hitching-rail. Pan took them in before they paid any particular
attention to him.

"Morning, gents," he said, easily. "Is the agent Smith around?"

"Howdy, stranger," replied one of them, looking Pan over. "Smith just
stepped over to the bank. He'll be back pronto."

Another of the group straightened up to run a hard gray eye from Pan's
spurs to his sombrero, and back for a second glance at his low hanging
gun. He was a tall man, in loose tan garments, trousers stuffed in his
boots. He had a big sandy mustache. He moved to face Pan, and either
by accident or design the flap of his coat fell back to expose a bright
silver shield on his vest.

"Reckon you're new in these parts?" he queried.

"Yep. Just r