into
ditches by the trailing feet of cattle and sheep, and most of the
grass pulled up by the roots. In such a country every gulch becomes a
watercourse almost before the dust is laid, the _arroyos_ turn to
rivers and the rivers to broad floods, drifting with trees and
wreckage. But the cattlemen and sheepmen who happened to be in Bender,
either to take on hands for the spring round-up or to ship supplies to
their shearing camps out on the desert, were not worrying about the
railroad. Whether the bridges went out or held, the grass and browse
would shoot up like beanstalks in to-morrow's magic sunshine; and even
if the Rio Salagua blocked their passage, or the shearers' tents were
beaten into the mud, there would still be feed, and feed was
everything.

But while the rain was worth a thousand dollars a minute to the
country at large, trade languished in the Hotel Bender. In a land
where a gentleman cannot take a drink without urging every one within
the sound of his voice to join in, the saloon business, while running
on an assured basis, is sure to have its dull and idle moments. Having
rung up the two dollars and a half which Jefferson Creede paid for his
last drink--the same being equivalent to one day's wages as foreman of
the Dos S outfit--Black Tex, as Mr. Brady of the Bender bar preferred
to be called, doused the glasses into a tub, turned them over to his
roustabout, and polished the cherrywood moodily. Then he drew his
eyebrows down and scowled at the little man in the corner.

In his professional career he had encountered a great many men who did
not drink, but most of them smoked, and the others would at least
take a cigar home to their friends. But here was a man who refused to
come in on a treat at all, and a poor, miserable excuse for a man he
was, too, without a word for any one. Mr. Brady's reflections on the
perversity of tenderfeet were cut short by a cold blast of air. The
door swung open, letting in a smell of wet greasewood, and an old man,
his hat dripping, stumbled in and stood swaying against the bar. His
aged sombrero, blacksmithed along the ridge with copper rivets, was
set far back on a head of long gray hair which hung in heavy strings
down his back, like an Indian's; his beard, equally long and tangled,
spread out like a chest protector across his greasy shirt, and his
fiery eyes roved furtively about the room as he motioned for a drink.
Black Tex set out the bottle negligently and stood w