an decided the matter for him. It fell
upon a horse, and instantly ceased to rove. The cow-pony was tied to a
hitching-rack worn shiny by thousands of reins. On the nose of the
bronco was a splash of white. Stockings of the same color marked its
legs. The left hind hoof was gashed and broken.

The rider communed with himself. "I reckon we'll 'light and take an
interest, Jack. Them that looks for, finds."

He slid from the saddle and rolled a cigarette, after which he made
friends with the sorrel and examined carefully the damaged foot.

"It's a li'l bit of a world after all," he commented. "You never can
tell who you're liable to meet up with." The foreman drew from its
scabbard a revolver and slid it back into place to make sure that it lay
easy in its case. "You can't guess for sure what's likely to happen.
I'd a heap rather be too cautious than have flowers sent me."

He sauntered through the open door into the gambling-house. It was a
large hall, in the front part of which was the saloon. In the back the
side wall to the next building had been ripped out to give more room.
There was a space for dancing, as well as roulette, faro, chuckaluck,
and poker tables. In one corner a raised stand for the musicians had
been built.

The Longhorn was practically deserted. Not even a game of draw was in
progress. The dance-girls were making up for lost sleep, and the patrons
of the place were either at work or still in bed.

Three men were lined up in front of the bar. One was a tall, lank
person, hatchet-faced and sallow. He had a cast in his eye that gave him
a sinister expression. The second was slender and trim, black of hair
and eye and mustache. His clothes were very good and up to date. The one
farthest from the door was a heavy-set, unwieldy man in jeans, slouchy
as to dress and bearing. Perhaps it was the jade eyes of the man that
made Roberts decide instantly he was one tough citizen.

The line-rider ordered a drink.

"Hardware, please," said the bartender curtly.

"Enforcin' that rule, are they?" asked Roberts casually as his eyes
swept over the other men.

"That's whatever. Y'betcha. We don't want no gay cowboys shootin' out
our lights. No reflections, y'understand."

The latest arrival handed over his revolver, and the man behind the bar
hung the scabbard on a nail. Half a dozen others were on a shelf beside
it. For the custom on the frontier was that each rider from the range
should deposit his weapons