man's glance shifted deliberately from the
girl to Endicott and back to the girl again. Then, without waiting for
her to reply, he whirled his horse and swung off at top speed to join
the other cowpunchers who were racing in the wake of the Mayor.

CHAPTER III

PURDY

Some moments later, Jack Purdy nosed his horse into the group of
cayuses that stood with reins hanging, "tied to the ground," in front
of the Long Horn Saloon. Beyond the open doors sounded a babel of
voices and he could see the men lined two deep before the bar.

Swinging from the saddle he threw the stirrup over the seat and became
immediately absorbed in the readjustment of his latigo strap. Close
beside him Tex Benton's horse dozed with drooping head. Swiftly a hand
whose palm concealed an open jack-knife slipped beneath the Texan's
right stirrup-leather and a moment later was withdrawn as the cayuse,
suspicious of the fumbling on the wrong side of the saddle, snorted
nervously and sheered sharply against another horse which with an angry
squeal, a laying back of the ears, and a vicious snap of the teeth,
resented the intrusion. Purdy jerked sharply at the reins of his own
horse which caused that animal to rear back and pull away.

"Whoa, there! Yeh imp of hell!" he rasped, in tones loud enough to
account for the commotion among the horses, and slipping the knife into
his pocket, entered the saloon from which he emerged unobserved while
the boisterous crowd was refilling its glasses at the solicitation of a
white goods drummer who had been among the first to accept the
invitation of the Mayor.

Three doors up the street he entered a rival saloon where the bartender
was idly arranging his glasses on the back-bar in anticipation of the
inevitable rush of business which would descend upon him when the
spirit should move the crowd in the Long Horn to start "going the
rounds."

"Hello, Cinnabar!" The cowpuncher leaned an elbow on the bar, elevated
a foot to the rail, and producing tobacco and a book of brown papers,
proceeded to roll a cigarette. The bartender returned the greeting and
shot the other a keen glance from the corner of his eye as he set out a
bottle and a couple of glasses.

"Be'n down to the wreck?" he asked, with professional
disinterestedness. The cowpuncher nodded, lighted his cigarette, and
picking the bottle up by the neck, poured a few drops into his glass.
"Pretty bad pile-up," persisted the bartender as he me