ranches, was Cowan's saloon, in the dozen years of its existence the
scene of good stories, boisterous fun, and quick deaths. Put together
roughly, of crude materials, sticking up in inartistic prominence on the
dusty edge of a dustier street; warped, bleached by the sun, and patched
with boards ripped from packing cases and with the flattened sides of
tin cans; low of ceiling, the floor one huge brown discoloration of
spring, creaking boards, knotted and split and worn into hollows, the
unpretentious building offered its hospitality to all who might be
tempted by the scrawled, sprawled lettering of its sign. The walls were
smoke-blackened, pitted with numerous small and clear-cut holes, and
decorated with initials carelessly cut by men who had come and gone.

Such was Cowan's, the best patronized place in many hot and dusty miles
and the Mecca of the cowboys from the surrounding ranches. Often at
night these riders of the range gathered in the humble building and told
tales of exceeding interest; and on these occasions one might see a
row of ponies standing before the building, heads down and quiet. It is
strange how alike cow-ponies look in the dim light of the stars. On the
south side of the saloon, weak, yellow lamp light filtered through the
dirt on the window panes and fell in distorted patches on the plain,
blotched in places by the shadows of the wooden substitutes for glass.

It was a moonlight night late in the fall, after the last beef round-up
was over and the last drive outfit home again, that two cow-ponies stood
in front of Cowan's while their owners lolled against the bar and talked
over the latest sensation--the fencing in of the West Valley range,
and the way Hopalong Cassidy and his trail outfit had opened up the old
drive trail across it. The news was a month old, but it was the last
event of any importance and was still good to laugh over.

"Boys," remarked the proprietor, "I want you to meet Mr. Elkins. He came
down that trail last week, an' he didn't see no fence across it." The
man at the table arose slowly. "Mr. Elkins, this is Sandy Lucas, an'
Wood Wright, of the C-80. Mr. Elkins here has been a-looking over the
country, sizing up what the beef prospects will be for next year; an'
he knows all about wire fences. Here's how," he smiled, treating on the
house.

Mr. Elkins touched the glass to his bearded lips and set it down
untasted while he joked over the sharp rebuff so lately administered t