During the next several hours, while Tex searched the town for a buckboard and team he could borrow, the other cowboys wandered from the saloon to the post-office and back again, and then to the store, the restaurant and all around. The town had gradually filled up with Saturday visitors. “Boys, there’s the boss,” suddenly broke out Andy, pointing; and he ducked into the nearest doorway, which happened to be that of another saloon. It was half full of cowboys, ranchers, Mexicans, tobacco smoke and noise. Andy’s companions had rushed pell-mell after him; and not until they all got inside did they realize that this saloon was a rendezvous for cowboys decidedly not on friendly terms with Springer’s outfit. Nevada was the only one of the trio who took the situation nonchalantly. “Wal, we’re in, an’ what the mischief do we care for Beady Jones, an’ his outfit?” remarked Nevada, quite loud enough to be heard by others beside his friends. Naturally they lined up at the bar, and this was not a good thing for young men who had an important engagement and who must preserve sobriety. After several rounds of drinks they began to whisper and snicker over the possibility of Tex meeting the boss. “If only it doesn’t come off until Tex gets our forty-year-old schoolmarm from Missourie with him in the buckboard!” exclaimed Panhandle, in huge glee. “Shore. Tex, the handsome galoot, is most to blame for this mess,” added Nevada. “Thet cowboy won’t be above makin’ love to Jane, if he thinks we’re not around. But, fellars, we want to be there.” “Wouldn’t miss seein’ the boss meet Tex for a million!” said Andy. Presently a tall, striking-looking cowboy, with dark face and small bright eyes like black beads, detached himself from a group of noisy companions, and confronted the trio, more particularly Nevada. “Howdy, men,” he greeted them, “what you-all doin’ in here?” He was coolly impertinent, and his action and query noticeably stilled the room. Andy and Panhandle leaned back against the bar. They had been in such situations before and knew who would do the talking for them. “Howdy, Jones,” replied Nevada, coolly and carelessly. “We happened to bust in here by accident. Reckon we’re usually more particular what kind of company we mix with.” “Ahuh! Springer’s outfit is shore a stuck-up one,” sneered Jones, in a loud tone. “So stuck-up they won’t even ride around drift-fences.” Nevada slightly changed his position. “Beady, I’ve had a couple of drinks an’ ain’t very clear-headed,” drawled Nevada. “Would you mind talkin’ so I can understand you?” “Bah! You savvy all right,” declared Jones, sarcastically. “I’m tellin’ you straight what I’ve been layin’ to tell your yaller-headed Texas pard.” “Now you’re speakin’ English, Beady. Tex an’ me are pards, shore. An’ I’ll take it kind of you to get this talk out of your system. You seem to be chock full.”