barrel of a Winchester came through a cranny of a solid window
shutter followed by a short inquiry.

"Wells Pearson, of the Mucho Calor, and Burrows, of Green Valley," was
the response. "We want to buy some goods in the store. Sorry to wake
you up but we must have 'em. Come on out, Uncle Tommy, and get a move
on you."

Uncle Tommy was slow, but at length they got him behind his counter
with a kerosene lamp lit, and told him of their dire need.

"Easter hats?" said Uncle Tommy, sleepily. "Why, yes, I believe I have
got just a couple left. I only ordered a dozen this spring. I'll show
'em to you."

Now, Uncle Tommy Sutton was a merchant, half asleep or awake. In dusty
pasteboard boxes under the counter he had two left-over spring hats.
But, alas! for his commercial probity on that early Saturday morn--they
were hats of two springs ago, and a woman's eye would have detected the
fraud at half a glance. But to the unintelligent gaze of the
cowpuncher and the sheepman they seemed fresh from the mint of
contemporaneous April.

The hats were of a variety once known as "cart-wheels." They were of
stiff straw, colored red, and flat brimmed. Both were exactly alike,
and trimmed lavishly around their crowns with full blown, immaculate,
artificial white roses.

"That all you got, Uncle Tommy?" said Pearson. "All right. Not much
choice here, Burr. Take your pick."

"They're the latest styles" lied Uncle Tommy. "You'd see 'em on Fifth
Avenue, if you was in New York."

Uncle Tommy wrapped and tied each hat in two yards of dark calico for a
protection. One Pearson tied carefully to his calfskin saddle-thongs;
and the other became part of Road Runner's burden. They shouted thanks
and farewells to Uncle Tommy, and cantered back into the night on the
home stretch.

The horsemen jockeyed with all their skill. They rode more slowly on
their way back. The few words they spoke were not unfriendly. Burrows
had a Winchester under his left leg slung over his saddle horn.
Pearson had a six shooter belted around him. Thus men rode in the Frio
country.

At half-past seven in the morning they rode to the top of a hill and
saw the Espinosa Ranch, a white spot under a dark patch of live-oaks,
five miles away.

The sight roused Pearson from his drooping pose in the saddle. He knew
what Road Runner could do. The sorrel was lathered, and stumbling
frequently; Road Runner was pegging away like a donkey engine.

Pearson t