to seeing men emerge from Poteet's Casino when the night bouncer was on the job.
The impetus of his rush against the swinging half-doors carried the cowboy into the dusty street. Bill Dunham was right there on the edge of the planks, with a little fatherly advice, given in a low but portentous tone. By the time the rest of them, including Charley Mallon, had taken in breath enough to carry them to the door, the cowboy was astraddle of his horse, heading for parts known only to himself. Bill Dunham turned a couple of shots loose after him to give him the key, and let him go.
When Mallon divided the latticed doors cautiously and thrust out a questioning phiz, he saw a streak of dust with a humped-over cowboy at the farther end of it, and the heads of a few citizens sticking out of doors and windows to see what it was about.
Mallon was back in his place behind the bar by the time Bill got inside, mashing half a lemon with his wooden pestle in a tall glass. The range-riders went out to think things over and get their bearings, not knowing just where the rest of them were going to get off. The few railroaders had come back to the bar, laughing and well pleased with the quick overturn the granger had made among the fresh young fellows who were not always careful where they stood their hot jokes around.
Major Simmons was nearest Bill on his progress to the bar, the captured gun in his big fist.
"Mr. Dunham," Major Simmons flung out a congratulatory hand, his dry face crinkled in humorous
