of
Drybone's casualties. His wife owned the dance-hall, and between their
industries they made out a living. And all the citizens made out a
living. The happy cow-punchers on ranches far and near still earned and
instantly spent the high wages still paid them. With their bodies
full of youth and their pockets full of gold, they rode into town by
twenties, by fifties, and out again next morning, penniless always and
happy. And then the Four-ace Johnstons would sit card-playing with each
other till the innocents should come to town again.

To-night the innocents had certainly come to town, and Drybone was
furnishing to them all its joys. Their many horses stood tied at every
post and corner--patient, experienced cow-ponies, well knowing it was
an all-night affair. The talk and laughter of the riders was in the
saloons; they leaned joking over the bars, they sat behind their cards
at the tables, they strolled to the post-trader's to buy presents for
their easy sweethearts their boots were keeping audible time with the
fiddle at Mrs. Slaghammer's. From the multitude and vigor of the sounds
there, the dance was being done regularly. "Regularly" meant that upon
the conclusion of each set the gentleman led his lady to the bar and
invited her to choose and it was also regular that the lady should
choose. Beer and whiskey were the alternatives.

Lin McLean's horse took him across the square without guiding from the
cow-puncher, who sat absently with his hands folded upon the horn of his
saddle. This horse, too, was patient and experienced, and could not know
what remote thoughts filled his master's mind. He looked around to see
why his master did not get off lightly, as he had done during so
many gallant years, and hasten in to the conviviality. But the lonely
cow-puncher sat mechanically identifying the horses of acquaintances.

"Toothpick Kid is here," said he, "and Limber Jim, and the Doughie.
You'd think he'd stay away after the trouble he--I expect that pinto is
Jerky Bill's."

"Go home!" said a hearty voice.

McLean eagerly turned. For the moment his face lighted from its
sombreness. "I'd forgot you'd be here," said he. And he sprang to the
ground. "It's fine to see you."

"Go home!" repeated the Governor of Wyoming, shaking his ancient
friend's hand. "You in Drybone to-night, and claim you're reformed?

"Yu' seem to be on hand yourself," said the cow-puncher, bracing to be
jocular, if he could.

"Me! I've gone f