a guard at the Goblet and went up to Boom Town and the lunch counter. Now and then a man came up to him as he ate and sought to enter conversation. But only too plainly Steele's thoughts were wandering far afield; he was saying that if there were such an element as luck, if it were behaving kindly toward him just now, why then, taking advantage of its fickle propitiousness he ought to jump on his horse, smash a record getting to the Thunder River ranch house, break in on the maiden meditations of Beatrice Corliss and demand to be loved.
Coal oil lamps and tallow candles stuck in bottles or jammed down tight on window sills were casting their pale yellow lights from the saloon windows when he pushed away his plate and filled his pipe. Swinging about on his stool, he watched the men crowding through the doorway, listened to the many voices of men congregating at the long bar or taking their place about the tables at the far end of the room or seeking partners for the dance. Already the accordeon player was hard at it; the fiddler was just finishing his supper and wiping his moustache, preparatory to joining his fellow music maker.
Steele, with his pipe going, left his stool and stepped out into the street, planning to return to the cabin. As he did so he saw Joe Embry push through the crowd at the saloon's door and go inside. It was the first time he had seen Embry since the trouble at the Goblet. In swift obedience to the natural impulse, Steele followed him. He had the wish to know just what look
