But there were horses in the stalls, horses that lolled on a dropped hip, with heads down and eyes closed. There were heavy roping saddles hanging on the pegs, and bridles with ear loops and no throat latches. If the proprietor, one MacGregor, wore a necktie and a cloth cap, he forgave him for the sake of the open waistcoat and the lack of an outer coat. MacGregor was an incident of little importance. One of more consequence was a good horse that roamed the open feed yard at the side of the barn. De Launay, seedy and disreputable, still had a look about him that spoke of certain long dead days, and MacGregor, when he was asked about the horse, made no mistake in concluding that he had to deal with one who knew what he was about. The horse was MacGregor's, taken to satisfy a debt, and he would sell it. The upshot of the affair was that De Launay bought it at a fair price. This took time, and when he finally came out again to the front of the barn it was late afternoon. Squatted against the wall, their high heels planted under them on the sloping boards of the runway, sat two men. Wide, flapping hats shaded their faces. They wore no coats, although the November evenings were cool and their waistcoats hung open. Overalls of blue denim, turned up at the bottoms in wide cuffs, hid all but feet and wrinkled ankles of their boots which were grooved with shiny semicircles around the heels, where spurs had dented them. One of them was as tall as De Launay, gaunt and hatchet faced. His hair was yellowish, mottled with patches of grayish green. The other was sturdy, shorter, with curly, brown hair. The tall one was humming a tune. De Launay recognized it with a shock of recollection. "Roll on, my little doggy!" Without a word he sat down also, in a duplicate of their pose. No one spoke for several minutes. Then, the shorter man said, casually, addressing his remarks to nobody in particular. "They's sure a lotta fresh pilgrims done hit this here town." The tall one echoed an equally casual chorus. "They don't teach no sort of manners to them down-East hobos, neither." De Launay stared impassively at the road in front of them. "You'd think some of them'd sense it that a gent has got a right to be private when he wants to be." "It's a ---- of a town, nohow." "People even run around smellin' of liquor--which is plumb illegal, Sucatash." "Which there are some that are that debased they even thrives on wood alcohol, Dave." Silence settled down on them once more. It was broken this time by De Launay, who spoke as impersonally as they. "They had real cow hands hereaways, once." A late and sluggish fly buzzed in the silence. "I reckon the sheep eat 'em outa range and they done moved down to Arizona." The gaunt Sucatash murmured sadly: "Them pilgrims is sure smart on g'ography an' history." "An' sheep--especially," said the one called Dave.