l mob such places attract in any Western
country town; ranchers, cowpunchers, real-estate touts, railway
construction men, horse dealers, teamsters and several of Vernock's
sporty storekeepers and clerks.

He seated himself in a lounge chair in one of the side rooms, lit his
pipe and pulled out the previous day's Coast newspaper. He was tired
from his all day's running around after Jim. It was a raw evening
out-of-doors, but it was cosy in there. The popping of corks, the
clinking of glasses, the hum of voices and the occasional burst of
ribald laughter, even the quarrelsome argument; all had more or less a
soothing effect, which began to make Phil feel at harmony with the
world at large. He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He
stretched his legs, unfolded the large sheet and settled down
comfortably.

He did not get very far. He had only scanned the headlines and had
read the chief editorial, when the sound of an old, familiar voice in
the saloon attracted his attention. He looked up.

It was DeRue Hannington, immaculate as usual, but terribly excited and
mentally worked-up.

This same Percival DeRue Hannington had now become an established fact
in Vernock. While he was looked upon as more or less of a fool in
regard to money matters--with more money than brains--he had that
trait about him which many well-bred Englishmen possess; he always
commanded a certain amount of respect, and he declined to tolerate
anything verging on loose familiarity.

"Say!" he was drawling, as he strode the saw-dusted floor, whacking
his leggings with his riding crop, "what would you Johnnies do with a
rotter that grossly maltreated your horse?"

"Stand him a drink," came a voice.

"Lynch him," suggested another.

"Push his daylights in!"

"Dip him in the lake!"

"Invite him up home and treat him to a boiled egg!"

"Forget it!"

Various were the suggestions thrown out, gratis, to DeRue Hannington's
query, for all of them knew that he was crazy over horseflesh in
general and particularly over the pure white thoroughbred he had got
from Rattlesnake Dalton the day he closed the deal and became owner of
the good-for-nothing Lost Durkin Gold Mine.

Whether or not DeRue Hannington considered that he had been defrauded
in the matter of the mine still remained for him to test out, but the
white horse was certainly a beauty, and her owner was never so happy
as when careering down Main Street or over the ranges astride of h