t step considered necessary for the acquirement of case and
polish was begun at the nearest bar, and Tex, being the host, was so
liberal that his friends had reached a most auspicious state when they
followed him to Tom Lee's.

Tex was too wise to lose his head through drink and had taken only
enough to make him careless of consequences. Porous was determined to
sing "Annie Laurie," although he hung on the last word of the first
line until out of breath and then began anew. Silent, not wishing to be
outdone, bawled at the top of his lungs a medley of music-hall words to
the air of a hymn.

Tex, walking as awkwardly as any cow-puncher, approached Tom Lee's, his
two friends trailing erratically, arm in arm, in his rear. Swinging his
arm he struck the door a resounding blow and entered, hand on gun, as it
crashed back. Porous and Silent stood in the doorway and quarreled as
to what each should drink and, compromising, lurched in and seated
themselves on a table and resumed their vocal perpetrations.

Tex swaggered over to the bar and tossed a quarter upon it: "Corn
juice," he laconically exclaimed. Tossing off the liquor and glancing
at his howling friends, he shrugged his shoulders and strode out by the
rear door, slamming it after him. Porous and Silent, recounting friends
who had "cashed in" fell to weeping and they were thus occupied when
Hopalong and Buck entered, closely followed by the rest of the outfit.

Buck walked to the bar and was followed by Hopalong, who declined his
foreman's offer to treat. Tom Lee set a bottle at Buck's elbow and
placed his hands against the bar.

"Friend of yourn just hit the back trail," he remarked to Hopalong. "He
was primed some for trouble, too," he added.

"Yaas?" Drawled Hopalong with little interest.

The proprietor restacked the few glasses and wiped off the bar. "Them's
his pardners," he said, indicating the pair on the table.

Hopalong turned his head and gravely scrutinized them. Porous was
bemoaning the death of Slim Travennes and Hopalong frowned.

"Don't reckon he's no relation of mine," he grunted.

"Well, he ain't yore sister," replied Tom Lee, grinning.

"What's his brand?" Asked the puncher.

"I reckon he's a maverick, 'though yu put yore brand on him up to Santa
Fe a couple of years back. Since he's throwed back on yore range I
reckon he's yourn if yu wants him."

"I reckon Tex is some sore," remarked Hopalong, rolling a cigarette.

"I reckon he is," r