The first person he saw was Two-Spot, leaning against the front of the Palace and who accepted, with alacrity, Smitty's invitation to drink. Two-Spot saw the condition of the hat before its wearer had dismounted, and his curiosity burned strongly within him. The puncher engaged him and Dave in conversation but his efforts at these sources of information were futile. What knowledge he gained had no bearing on Johnny. Two-Spot casually remarked that Johnny had been loafing around most of the afternoon, pestering him and said that he was a nuisance. Buying another round Smitty sauntered into Dailey's, where he learned nothing at all. Having taken the census and found that everyone had been rooted in town all day, he began to accept his foreman's view of the mystery, and set out for home, burning for an opportunity to observe his bosom friends and listen to their careless conversation. But if he had not received any information, he had not given any, and Two-Spot's curiosity about the hole in the hat was still raging. "The' doin's on this here range are scandalous," observed Dave's factotum to Dave, himself. "They're gettin' worse an' worse, an' somebody's goin' to get hurt afore long. Now I wonder how th' devil Smitty's hat got abused like that?" "What makes you think things is gettin' worse?" asked Dave. "That Greaser tent never come by that hole from bein' used; an' Smitty was shore askin' a lot of questions; an' Nelson ain't swimmin' hisself an' that hoss for fun--I know _I_ wouldn't." "Which is an abidin' sorrer to all them as gets down wind of you," said Dave. "Was Nelson's saddle wet?" "No-o; I reckon it was dry," grudgingly admitted the other. "Was his clothes wet?" continued Dave. "No-o-o," more reluctantly admitted Two-Spot. "You got a head like a toad," contemptuously rejoined the proprietor. "Trouble with you is, yore imagination is on th' rampage. You got too much time on yore hands--suppose you 'tend to th' sand boxes? They ain't been touched in three days." Two-Spot sighed and obeyed. "Huh!" he grunted, emptying a box into the road. "Mebby; but I saw somethin' about that hole that reminded me of some gosh-awful ca'tridges I seen lately. Cuss it--I'd _bet_ on it!" He chuckled, set down the box, slipped around the side of the saloon and poked his head in the hotel shed. "Don't she shine, though?" he remarked in congratulatory tones. "She does," admitted Johnny, finishing the job. "Say," said his visitor, "gimme an empty rifle shell." "What for?" "I want to keep matches in it. I'll get a cork from Dave an' have a waterproof matchbox." "You need it," countered Johnny. "Aimin' to fall in th' crick? You need that, too." Two-Spot ignored the insult, the second on that topic within five minutes. Evidently there must be some real or fancied foundation for it. "Got one?" he asked. "I'll save you one," replied Johnny; "but mebby you'll have to wait quite a spell. I still got them I loaded," he said, truthfully.