Twilight impended when two automobile loads of principals, attired cowboyishly and cowgirlishly, came thumping out of the north along the dusty road. These persons dismounted and trooped inside. A little behind them, heralded by a jingle of accoutrement, came a dozen or so punchers riding ponies. With jest and quip bandied back and forth, and to the tinkling of their spurs, these last dropped off their jaded mounts, leaving the ponies to stand with drooping heads and dragging bridles, and went clumping on their high heels into a small wooden place, advertising liquid refreshment, which stood across the way. The detective softly joggled Mrs. Pilkins' elbow. "Come on, ma'am," he said; "just follow me. And don't say anything until you're sure. And don't scream or faint or anything like that--if you can help it." "I shan't," said Mrs. Pilkins, all a-tremble. She was resolved not to scream and she was not the fainting kind. Very naturally and very properly, as a gently nurtured woman, Mrs. Pilkins had never seen the interior of a barroom. From just inside the swinging doors where her escort halted her she looked about the place with the eye of curiosity, and even though her mind swirled tumultuously she comprehended it--the glassware, the pictures on the walls, the short bar, the affable dispenser who stood behind it, and the row of cowboys who lined the front of it from end to end, with their backs and hunched shoulders all turned to her, stretching away in a diminishing perspective. "Wait a minute, lady," advised the detective in a whisper. "Take your time and look 'em over careful. And be sure--be sure to be sure." The lady strove to obey. She looked and she looked. At the back of the room three punchers were clumped together, withdrawn slightly from their fellows--a tall puncher, a medium-sized puncher, and between these two a small puncher. "Here, ol'-timer," bade the tall puncher, drumming with his knuckles upon the bar, "wait on fellers that a-got a real thirst. Three long beers!" The beers were drawn and placed at properly spaced intervals before the three. Their three right elbows rose at an angle; three flagons of creamy brew vanished. A fourth cowboy slid down toward them. "Well," he demanded boisterously, "how's Little Chestnut makin' out? Still saddle sore? Still hatin' to think of the place where you got to meet that there old paint pony of yourn to-mor' mornin'?" It was the tall cowboy who made answer. "Nix on that Chestnut thing," he said. "That's old stuff. You should a-seen the little man stay by that pinto of hisn when she got uptious a while ago--jist stay by her and pour the leather into her. No, sir, that there Chestnut stuff don't go any more for this bunch. This here"--and his long flannel-clad arm was endearingly enwrapped about the shoulders of his small companion--"this here boy from now on is Old Chesty."