The two newcomers, watching each man or group of men, rode on slowly until they came to the building on whose false front was a gigantic spur in yellow paint. Here they dismounted, tied their horses, and went in. Carson, with a quick eye toward preparedness for what might lie on the cards, looked for Lee's gun. It wasn't in his pocket; it wasn't in his waistband, ready to hand. It wasn't anywhere that Carson could see. At the door he whispered warningly: "Better be ready, Bud. Ain't lost your gun, have you?" Lee shook his head and stepped into the room. At the long bar were three or four men, drinking. Quinnion was not among them. There were other men at the round tables, playing draw, solo, stud horse. One glance showed that Quinnion was not in the room. But there were other rooms at the rear for those desiring privacy. Lee, nodding this way and that to friends who accosted him, made his way straight to the bar. "Hello, Sandy," he said quietly. Sandy Weaver, the bartender, looked at him curiously. A short, heavy, blond man was Sandy Weaver, who ran a fair house and gave his attention strictly to his own business. Save when asked by a friend to do him a favor, such a favor as to keep an eye on another man. "Hello, Bud," returned Sandy, putting out a red hand. All expression of interest had fled from his placid face. "Come in right away, eh? Hello, Carson. Have somethin'; on me, you know." Lee shook his head. "Not to-night, Sandy," he said. "Thanks just the same." "Me," grinned Carson, "I'll go you, Sandy. Same thing--you know." Sandy shoved out whiskey-bottle and glass. Then he turned grave eyes to Lee. "One of these fellers can tend bar while we talk if you want, Bud," he offered. "You say Quinnion has been talking?" asked Lee. "Yes. Considerable. All afternoon an' evening, I guess. I didn't hear him until I called you up." "Then," continued the man from Blue Lake ranch, "I don't see any call for you and me to whisper, Sandy. What did he say?" "Said you was a liar, Bud. An' a skeerd-o-your-life damn bluff." A faint, shadowy smile touched Lee's eyes. "Just joshing, Sandy. But that wasn't all, was it?" "No," said Sandy, wiping his bar carefully. "There was the other word, Bud. An'--say, Billy, tell him what Quinnion had to say down to the Jailbird." Lee turned his eyes to Billy Young. Young, a cattleman from the Up and Down range, shifted his belt and looked uncomfortable. "Damn if I do!" he blurted out. "It ain't none of my funeral. An' if you ask me, I don't like the sound of that kind of talk in my mouth. Maybe I can't find my way to church of a Sunday for staggerin' with red-eye, but I ain't ever drug a nice girl's name into a barroom." "So," said Lee very quietly, "that's it, is it?"