teen's comin'," he remarked to the trio of idlers leaning against
the side of the building; "guess I'd better go over an' see who's on
her," moving as he spoke out into the sizzling glare of the almost
deserted street. Glancing toward the east his eyes fastened on a cloud
of dust whirling rapidly along the road that came from the direction of
the lower Cimarron.

"Gosh, lookey yonder," he muttered, "that must be Old Heck drivin' his
new automobile--th' darn fool is goin' to bust something some day,
runnin' that car the way he does!"

Walking quickly, to escape the heat, he crossed the street to the
station.

Two minutes later the cloud of dust trailed a rakish, trim-lined,
high-powered, purring Clagstone "Six" to a stop in front of the
Occidental Hotel and Old Heck and Skinny Rawlins climbed glumly and
stiffly from the front seat, after the thirty-minute, twenty-mile run
from the Quarter Circle KT.

Old Heck had his peculiarities. One of them was insistence for the
best--absolutely or nothing. The first pure-bred, hot-blood stallions
turned on the Kiowa range carried the Quarter Circle KT brand on their
left shoulders. He wanted quality in his stock and spent thousands of
dollars importing bulls and stallions to get it. When the automobile
came it was the same. No jit for the erratic owner of the last big
genuine cow-ranch on the Cimarron. Consequently the beautiful car--a car
fit for Fifth Avenue--standing now in front of the old hotel in Eagle
Butte.

The smoke on the northeastern sky-line was yet some miles away.

The lanky marshal had reached the station.

"It's a good thing there's prohibition in this town," Skinny muttered as
he stepped from the car and started brushing the dust from his coat;

"Why?"

"'Cause I'd go get drunk if there wasn't--. Wonder if a feller could get
any boot-leg liquor?"

"Better leave it alone," Old Heck warned, "that kind's worse than none.
It don't make you drunk--just gives you the hysterical hydrophobia!'

"Well, I'd drink anything in an emergency like this if I had it,"
Skinny declared doggedly.

"Train's comin'," Old Heck said shortly; "reckon we'd better go over to
the depot--"

"Let's wait here till they get off first," Skinny said. "We can see them
from where we are and kind of size 'em up and it won't be so sudden."

"Maybe that would be better," Old Heck answered.

A moment later Number Seventeen, west-bound Santa Fe passenger train,
stopped at the yellow st