Mr. Dancing's
idea, that's all. Right wrongs no man. Let Bill see Sinclair and see
what they can figure out." And having spoken, the stranger sank back
and tried to look comfortable.

"I'll talk with you later about it, Bill," said McCloud briefly.

"Meantime, Bill, see Sinclair and report," suggested the stranger.

"It's as good as done," announced Dancing, taking up his hat, "and,
Mr. McCloud, might I have a little advance for cigars and things?"

"Cigars and ammunition--of course. See Sykes, William, see Sykes; if
the office is closed go to his house--and see what will happen to
you--" added the visitor in an aside, "and tell him to telephone up to
Mr. McCloud for instruction," he concluded unceremoniously.

"Now why do you want to start Bill on a fool business like that?"
asked McCloud, as Bill Dancing took long steps from the room toward
the office of Sykes, the cashier.

"He didn't know me to-day, but he will to-morrow," said the stranger
reflectively. "Gods, what I've seen that man go through in the days of
the giants! Why, George, this will keep the boys talking, and they
have to do something. Spend the money; the company is making it too
fast anyway; they moved twenty-two thousand cars one day last week.
Personally I'm glad to have a little fun out of it; it will be hell
pure and undefiled long before we get through. This will be an easy
way of letting Sinclair know I am here. Bill will report me
confidentially to him as a suspicious personage."

To the astonishment of Sykes, the superintendent confirmed over the
telephone Dancing's statement that he was to draw some expense money.
Bill asked for twenty-five dollars. Sykes offered him two, and Bill
with some indignation accepted five. He spent all of this in trying to
find Sinclair, and on the strength of his story to the boys borrowed
five dollars more to prosecute the search. At ten o'clock that night
he ran into Sinclair playing cards in the big room above the Three
Horses.

The Three Horses still rears its hospitable two-story front in Fort
Street, the only one of the Medicine Bend gambling houses that goes
back to the days of '67; and it is the boast of its owners that since
the key was thrown away, thirty-nine years ago, its doors have never
been closed, night or day, except once for two hours during the
funeral of Dave Hawk. Bill Dancing drew Sinclair from his game and
told him of the talk with McCloud, touching it up with natural
enthusiasm. T