one-dollar bills for
his trick of substitution; that if he had come for them to Red Creek
that same night, after post-office and stores were closed, he would
have sought them at one of the two saloons; that, since currency is at
all times scarce in cattle towns in the West, he might have had to go
to both saloons for them.

Packard began investigations at the Old Trusty saloon whose doors stood
invitingly open to the faint afternoon breeze.

In the long room half-a-dozen idle men looked up at him with mild
interest, withdrawing their eyes briefly from solitaire or newspaper or
cribbage game or whatever had been holding their careless attention as
he entered.

A glance at them showed him no familiar face. He turned to the bar.

Behind it a man was polishing glasses with quick, skilful hands. Steve
knew him at once for Whitey Wimble. He was a pronounced albino,
unhealthy-looking, with overlarge, thin ears, small pale eyes, and
teeth that looked like chalk. Steve nodded to him and spun a dollar on
the bar.

"Have something," he suggested.

Wimble returned his nod, left off his polishing to shove forward a
couple of the glistening glasses, and produced a bottle from behind him.

"Regards," he said apathetically, taking his whiskey with the
enthusiasm and expression of a man observing his doctor's orders.
"Stranger in Red Creek?"

"I haven't been here," Steve answered, "for several years. I never saw
the town any quieter. Used to be a rather gay little place, didn't it?"

"It's early yet," said Whitey, going back to his interrupted task.
"Bein' Saturday, the boys from the ranches will be showin' up before
long. Then it ain't always so quiet."

Packard made his cigarette, lighted it, and then said casually: "How
are you fixed for dollar bills in your strong-box?"

"Nary," returned Whitey Wimble without troubling himself to look into
his till. "We don't see overmuch rag money in Red Creek."

"Guess that's so," admitted Steve. "They do come in handy, though,
sometimes; when you want to send a dollar in a letter or something of
that kind."

"That's a fac', too; never thought of that." Which, since he never
wrote or received letters, was no doubt true.

"Men around here don't have much use for paper money, do they?"
continued Packard carelessly, his interest seeming to centre in his
cigarette smoke. "I'd bet a man the drinks nobody else has asked you
for a dollar bill for the last six months."

"You