Two-Spot put down his empty glass and grinned. "I'll now go on from where I was interrupted, Gents," and, picking up the box, went towards the door. As he was about to pass through he saw Pepper, and he stopped. "Good, Lord!" he muttered. "What a hoss! I've seen passels of hosses, but never one like that. Midnight her name oughter be, or Thunderbolt." He turned. "Stranger, what name do you call that hoss?" Johnny looked around. "That's Pepper." Two-Spot grinned. "Did you see that?" he demanded, tilting the box until the sand ran out. "Did you _see_ it? She knows her name like a child. Well, it's a good name--a fair name," he hedged. "But, shucks! There ain't _no_ name fit for that hoss! How fur has she come today?" "Near forty miles," answered Johnny. "I say it ag'in--there ain't _no_ name fit for that hoss. She looks like she come five," and he passed out. "Don't mind him," said Dave. "But where did he git that dollar? Steal it? Find it? Reckon he found it. I near dropped dead. Pore devil--he come here last winter an' walks in, cleans my boxes an' sweeps. Then he goes 'round to th' hotel an' mops an' cleans th' pans better than they ever was before. He was so handy an' useful that we let him stay. An' I've never seen him more than half drunk--it's amazin' th' liquor he can hold." "Sleep here?" "No; an' nobody knows where he does sleep. He's cunnin' as a fox, an' fooled 'em every time. But wherever it is, it's dry." Johnny produced a Sharp's single-shot cartridge. "Where can I get some of these Specials?" he asked. Dave looked at it "'.45-120-550'--you won't get none of 'em down in this country." "Post office in town?" "Not yet. Th' nearest is Rawlins, thirty mile east, with th' worst trail a man ever rode. Th' next is Highbank, forty mile south. We use that, for th' trail's good. We get mail about twice a month. Th' Bar H an' th' Triangle take turns at it." "Then I'll write for some of these after I feed. I'll tell 'em to send 'em to you, at Highbank. What name will I give?" "Dave Green, Highbank-Gunsight mail. But you better write before you eat. This is goin' away day, an' th' Bar H will be in any minute now." Johnny arose. "Not before I eat. I ain't had nothin' since daybreak, an' it's afternoon now. I hate letter writin'; an' if I don't eat soon I'll get thin." "Then don't eat--'though I wasn't thinkin' of you when I spoke," growled Dave. "Wish I was in danger of gettin' thin." "What you care?" demanded Johnny. "Yo're healthy, an' yore job don't call for a man bein' light." "That's th' way you fellers talk," said Dave. "I'm short-winded, I'm in my own way, an' the joke of th' country. I can't ride a hoss--why, cuss it, I can't even get a gun out quick enough to get a hop-toad before he's moved twenty feet!"