“You bet, old boy!” Culder shook his head. “I got an eye on ’im myself! You c’n see he’s thinking something, the way he steps off.” * * * * * Saturday night in Boxelder was an occasion boisterous and full of life. Music from crowded dance halls, whoops from exuberant men, the rustling of an active throng filled the community around Court House Square with jubilee. Just after ten o’clock when an unusual throng had come in, due to cattle droving exigencies, with nesters, homesteaders and bad land scatterers all at hand, an agile little fellow with a face pointed like a rat’s, dashed into the One Way Thru Saloon and, stooping low, hissed to Cock Eye Baer for attention. “I say, Cock Eye!” he whispered. “Com’ere!” “What’s it?” Cock Eye leaned to listen. “I jes’ seen that Stroller Hesbern goin’ inta the Claybank Delight Saloon. My lan’! He looked hateful!” “Liquorin’ up?” “Yeh; he bought a big bottle, two quart. I seen it!” “Much obliged, Skinny,” Cock Eye said. “I’ll remember that. I don’t ferget favors.” Cock Eye ran his hand under the bar, where he had a long barreled .45 revolver, and made sure that there were loads in it. A minute later another man came in, leaning over and whispering to the bartender: “Look out, Cock Eye! That stroller bought two quarts to the Claybank--” “Aw right, Sam! I’m ready!” Then two men came in from the alley, hurrying. “Say, that feller Hesbern bought two quarts down to the Claybank, er somers. We seen ’im _emptyin’_ it out back jes’ now!” “Pretendin’ to liquor up, eh?” Cock Eye grimaced. “An’ keepin’ steady, eh--huh!” “That’s so,” an awed whisper ran around, some one saying, “Better get set, Cock Eye!” The bartender swallowed obviously, his beady little eyes rolling in their fat sockets. He took a couple of slugs himself. He needed a bracer. He was a humorist, not a fighting man. At the same time he wasn’t deficient when it came to a showdown. He’d bashed in a man’s skull, served as a bouncer innumerable times, and had come clear on the charge of shooting Dingo Washington in self-defense. He wouldn’t back down in face of necessity. He hung up his apron, and the proprietor of the One Way Thru quietly took the bartender’s place, spelling him. Grimly, looking neither to right nor left, Cock Eye Baer sallied forth into the darkness of the alleys. No one followed him. Men sauntered casually out into the gloom and stood, listening. Then they heard two shots, almost together, but none could tell by the echoes from blank walls and bad land bluffs just whence came the sounds. * * * * *