, of course, we are not making a
fortune--"

He paused and glanced up at his foreman's face, which was growing more
sullen every minute with restrained impatience.

"Well, speak out, Jeff," he said resignedly. "What is it?"

"You know dam' well what it is," burst out the tall cowboy petulantly.
"It's them sheepmen. And I want to tell you right now that no money
can hire me to run that ranch another year, not if I've got to smile
and be nice to those sons of--well, you know what kind of sons I
mean--that dog-faced Jasper Swope, for instance."

He spat vehemently at the mention of the name and led the way to a
card room in the rear of the barroom.

"Of course I'll work your cattle for you," he conceded, as he entered
the booth, "but if you want them sheepmen handled diplomatically you'd
better send up a diplomat. I'm that wore out I can't talk to 'em
except over the top of a six-shooter."

The deprecating protestations of the judge were drowned by the scuffle
of feet as the hangers-on and guests of the hotel tramped in, and in
the round of drinks that followed his presence was half forgotten. Not
being a drinking man himself, and therefore not given to the generous
practice of treating, the arrival of Judge Ware, lately retired from
the bench and now absentee owner of the Dos S Ranch, did not create
much of a furore in Bender. All Black Tex and the bunch knew was that
he was holding a conference with Jefferson Creede, and that if Jeff
was pleased with the outcome of the interview he would treat, but if
not he would probably retire to the corral and watch his horse eat
hay, openly declaring that Bender was the most God-forsaken hell-hole
north of the Mexican line--for Creede was a man of moods.

In the lull which followed the first treat, the ingratiating drummer
who had set up the drinks, charging the same to his expense account,
leaned against the bar and attempted to engage the barkeeper in
conversation, asking leading questions about business in general and
Mr. Einstein of the New York Store in particular; but Black Tex, in
spite of his position, was uncommunicative. Immediately after the
arrival of the train the little man who had called him down had
returned to the barroom and immersed himself in those wearisome
magazines which a lunger had left about the place, and, far from being
impressed with his sinister expression, had ignored his unfriendly
glances entirely. More than that, he had deserted his dark cor