The cowboy was innocent of the charge, however, and he was doing his energetic best to tell Manley. He had gone straight through the saloon and into the small room behind, where a man lay sprawled upon a bed in one corner. He was asleep, and his clothes were wrinkled as if he had lain there long. His head rested upon his folded arms, and he was snoring loudly. The young fellow went up and took him roughly by the shoulder. “Here! I thought I told you to straighten up,” he cried disgustedly. “Come alive! The train's come and gone, and your girl's waiting for you over to the hotel. D' you hear?” “Uh-huh!” The man opened one eye, grunted, and closed it again. The other yanked him half off the bed, and swore. This brought both eyes open, glassy with whisky and sleep. He sat wobbling upon the edge of the bed, staring stupidly. “Can't you get anything through you?” his tormentor exclaimed. “You want your girl to find out you're drunk? You got the license in your pocket. You're supposed to get spliced this evening--and look at you!” He turned and went out to the bartender. “Why didn't you pour that coffee into him, like I told you?” he demanded. “We've got to get him steady on his pins _somehow!_” The bartender was sprawled half over the bar, apathetically reading the sporting news of a torn Sunday edition of an Eastern paper. He looked up from under his eyebrows and grunted. “How you going to pour coffee down a man that lays flat on his belly and won't open his mouth?” he inquired, in an injured tone. “Sleep's all he needs, anyway. He'll be all right by morning.” The other snorted dissent. “He'll be all right by dark--or he'll feel a whole lot worse,” he promised grimly. “Dig up some ice. And a good jolt of bromo, if you've got it--and a towel or two.” The bartender wearily pushed the paper to one side, reached languidly under the bar, and laid hold of a round blue bottle. Yawning uninterestedly, he poured a double portion of the white crystals into a glass, half filled another under the faucet of the water cooler, and held them out. “Dump that into him, then,” he advised. “It'll help some, if you get it down. What's the sweat to get him married off to-day? Won't the girl wait?” “I never asked her. You pound up some ice and bring it in, will you?” The volunteer nurse kicked open the door into the little room and went in, hastily pouring the bromo seltzer from one glass to the other to keep it from foaming out of all bounds. His patient was still sitting upon the edge of the bed where he had left him, slumped forward with his head in his hands. He looked up stupidly, his eyes bloodshot and swollen of lid. “'S the train come in yet?” he asked thickly. “'S you, is it, Kent?”