y.

"--that they're good spenders, as the fellow says," amended the
bartender, to be on the safe side.

"When I usta know 'em they had a mighty cute little trick pony--name was
Chiquito, seems to me. Ever hear 'em mention it?"

"They was fussin' about that horse to-day. Seems they got an offer for
him and Doble wants to sell. Miller he says no."

"Yes?"

"I'll tell 'em a friend asked for 'em. What name?"

"Yes, do. Jim Smith."

"The fat old gobbler's liable to drop in any time now."

This seemed a good reason to Mr. Jim Smith, _alias_ David Sanders, for
dropping out. He did not care to have Miller know just yet who the kind
friend was that had inquired for him.

But just as he was turning away a word held him for a moment. The
discretion of the man in the apron was not quite proof against his habit
of talk.

"They been quarrelin' a good deal together. I expect the combination is
about ready to bust up," he whispered confidentially.

"Quarrelin'? What about?"

"Oh, I dunno. They act like they're sore as a boil at each other. Honest,
I thought they was goin' to mix it yesterday. I breezed up wit' a bottle
an' they kinda cooled off."

"Doble drunk?"

"Nope. Fact is, they'd trimmed a Greeley boob and was rowin' about the
split. Miller he claimed Doble held out on him. I'll bet he did too."

Dave did not care how much they quarreled or how soon they parted after
he had got back his horse. Until that time he preferred that they would
give him only one trail to follow instead of two.

The cowpuncher made it his business to loaf on Larimer Street for the
rest of the day. His beat was between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets,
usually on the other side of the road from the Klondike Saloon.

About four o'clock his patience was rewarded. Miller came rolling along
in a sort of sailor fashion characteristic of him. Dave had just time to
dive into a pawnbroker's shop unnoticed.

A black-haired, black-eyed salesman came forward to wait on him. The
puncher cast an eye helplessly about him. It fell on a suitcase.

"How much?" he asked.

"Seven dollars. Dirt sheap, my frient."

"Got any telescope grips?"

The salesman produced one. Dave bought it because he did not know how to
escape without.

He carried it with him while he lounged up and down the sidewalk waiting
for Miller to come out of the Klondike. When the fat gambler reappeared,
the range-rider fell in behind him unobserved and followed uptown past
th