on me." And when Old-timer straightway began
doing so, Weary leaned against the bar and wiped his forehead, and
wondered who the dickens the fellow could be. In Dry Lake, Irish had
been--well, hilarious--and not accountable for any little
peculiarities. In Sleepy Trail Weary was, perhaps he considered
unfortunately, sober and therefore obliged to feel his way carefully.

"Say! yuh want to keep your eyes peeled for Spikes Weber, Irish,"
remarked the unknown, after two drinks. "He's pawing up the earth
whenever he hears your name called. He's sure anxious to see the sod
packed down nice on top uh yuh."

"So I heard; his nibs here," indicating the bartender, "has been wising
me up, a lot. When's the stage due, tomorrow, Oldtimer?" Weary was
getting a bit ashamed of addressing them both impartially in that
manner, but it was the best he could do, not knowing the names men
called them. In this instance he spoke to the bartender.

"Why, yuh going to pull out while your hide's whole?" bantered the
cowboy, with the freedom which long acquaintance breeds.

"I've got business out uh town, and I want to be back time the stage
pulls in."

"Well, Limpy's still holding the ribbons over them buckskins uh his,
and he ain't varied five minutes in five years," responded the
bartender. "So I guess yuh can look for him same old time."

Weary's eyes opened a bit wider, then drooped humorously. "Oh, all
right," he murmured, as though thoroughly enlightened rather than being
rather more in the dark than before. In the name of Irish he found it
expedient to take another modest drink, and then excused himself with a
"See yuh later, boys," and went out and mounted Glory.

Ten miles nearer the railroad--which at that was not what even a
Montanan would call close--he had that day established headquarters and
was holding a bunch of saddle horses pending the arrival of help. He
rode out on the trail thoughtfully, a bit surprised that he had not
found the situation more amusing. To be taken for Irish was a joke,
and to learn thereby of Irish's little romance should be funny. But it
wasn't.

Weary wondered how Irish got mixed up in a deal like that, which
somehow did not seem to be in line with his character. And he wished,
a bit vindictively, that this Spikes Weber _could_ meet Irish. He
rather thought that Spikes needed the chastening effects of such a
meeting. Weary, while not in the least quarrelsome on his own account,