Wild Bill, old Nomad and Little Cayuse reached Hackamore in time to witness an object lesson in the reckless extravagance of the time and place. They were in the town many hours before Buffalo Bill had dropped through the roof of the dugout; in fact, they had reached Hackamore in ample time to put out their horses and sit in at dinner in the shack hotel. The baron was not with them. He had heard of a German rancher, living five miles out of Hackamore, and had separated from his pards to make the rancher’s acquaintance and gossip for a while in the language of the fatherland. Whenever the baron met a fellow countryman, there always followed a talkfest--and the baron would go many miles out of his way for a talkfest. Dinner over, Wild Bill, Nomad, and Cayuse strolled out into Hackamore’s main street. Their legs were cramped from much saddle work and needed stretching. Also, anything in the nature of a town appealed to them after miles of lonely plains and unoccupied wilderness. Hackamore was a mighty poor apology for a town, yet it had a huddle of buildings which formed a nucleus for people--and it was buildings and people the pards were eager to see. There was a crowd in the street in front of the hotel. “What’s the trouble?” asked Wild Bill of a lanky individual who was leaning against a post and picking his teeth with a sliver. “Aw, shucks!” answered the lank person; “Lige Benner an’ Hank Phelps aire cuttin’ capers with their jewelry. All dumb foolishness, but I allow it kain’t be helped.” The long Texan nibbled at a bar of tobacco, and settled back against the post with a resigned air. Wild Bill elbowed his way through the crowd and came upon the two cattlemen. Hank Phelps wore a high Mexican hat with tinkling silver ornaments festooned around the brim. His jacket was short, his trousers flared at the bottoms, and his waist was begirt with a gaudy sash. Phelps was American, through and through, but Mexican clothes were more spectacular, and for this reason alone he wore them. Lige Benner affected black. His black sombrero was set off with a twisted silver cord; there was a flowing white tie under the collar of his black silk shirt, and the bottoms of his black trousers were thrust into the tops of knee boots of patent leather. There were ornate silver spurs at the heels of the boots. When close enough, the Laramie man saw that the buttons on Phelps’ short jacket were set with diamonds. “Ugh!” muttered Wild Bill. “I wonder where they left the rest of their show? They’re got up like heroes in a blue-fire melodrama.” “Did you speak?” demanded Benner, whirling on Wild Bill. “I did,” answered Wild Bill. “You’re in mourning for somebody. Tell me who, and we’ll both weep.” A gleam crept into Benner’s eyes. But he whirled away without giving further notice to the Laramie man. “Look at this turnip, Hank,” said Benner, taking a watch from his pocket and passing it to the other baron for inspection.