ve got a long way to
go, and you'll have to give your horse a good breathing space before you
start back. I promise that we won't start out for the rustlers without
you, if you're really bent on going."

Bert thanked him, touched his horse with the spur, and, with a last wave
of his hand was off on his journey.

In due time he reached the town, hitched his horse to the rail in front
of the general store, and went in to make his purchases. This consumed
some time, and when he was through, his vigorous appetite reminded him
that it was time for dinner. There was only one place in that primitive
town where it could be obtained and that was in a little annex to the
leading saloon. Drinks of course were the things chiefly dealt in, but a
meal also could be obtained at any time desired, and Bert went in, seated
himself at a table in the corner, and ordered steak and eggs and coffee.

While this was being prepared he had ample time to look about him. The
building was a mere shack of the roughest kind. The bar took up one whole
side of the room, and the bartender was kept busy most of the time in
serving drinks to the crowd lined up before it. At a number of small
tables, miners, prospectors and cowboys were seated, with piles of poker
chips heaped up before them. Some of the men were already drunk and
inclined to be ugly, but most of them at that early hour were sober
enough, though drinking freely. All without exception were armed, and
the weapons peeped from their holsters within easy reach. Among these
reckless and, in many cases lawless, dwellers on the borderland of
civilization, the difference of a fraction of a second in offense or
defense might mean the difference between life and death.

Still, matters were proceeding peaceably enough at the moment, and there
was no indication of impending trouble. Bert's food was brought to him
after a considerable wait, and he "waded" into it with characteristic
vigor. The cooking was none too good nor was the food itself of
superlative quality. But "hunger is the best sauce," and he was not
inclined to be critical. He had, moreover, been too much of a traveler
not to be able to adapt himself philosophically to any condition in
which he found himself.

He was about to pick up his hat and go to the bar to pay for his meal,
when he was struck by the tones of a familiar voice. He looked about
quickly and saw Pedro, the cowboy employed at the ranch. He was surprised
at this, as he