“But his clothes, Whizzer. Wasn’t there somethin’ yuh could remember? Somethin’ about how he looked?” Whizzer shook his head. Brick lighted a cigaret and studied the youngster. “Sleepy, Whizzer?” “Nope. Say, when do I find my daddy?” Brick sighed and shook his head sadly. He did not want to tell him now. Silent swore softly and counted the cartridge-heads in his belt. “Want to take a ride to Silverton, buddy?” queried Brick. “Sure.” Whizzer hopped off his chair and almost fell down. “My feet don’t feel good,” he told Brick. “They ache.” “Oh, I wouldn’t take him plumb down there, Brick.” Thus Mrs. Wesson quickly. “He needs a bath and some good sleep.” “I know it, Ma,” nodded Brick, “but I’ve got to take him. It might be kinda hard on Whizzer, but he’ll pull through.” “Sure,” nodded Whizzer. “I’ll go.” Mrs. Wesson grumbled to herself, as she wrapped him up in a light blanket. She knew that Brick must have a good reason for taking the youngster to Silverton; but she did want to clean him up a little. “Lemme carry him,” begged Silent. “I’ve got a strong horse, and it takes a strong horse to carry two cowpunchers.” “Sure,” agreed Whizzer. “I lost m’ spur, yuh know.” “Yuh can have both of mine,” offered Silent, as Brick handed the youngster up to him. “Oh, good! If daddy gives me one, I’ll have three. Mebbe he won’t though.” “Mebbe not,” said Silent softly. * * * * * A dance in Silverton was almost a county affair. They had the largest hall in the county and boasted of the best orchestra. The dance usually began about eight o’clock in the evening and rarely ever ended before eight o’clock the following morning. And it was not strange on this night that every bit of space in the livery-stable was taken and practically every inch of space at the several hitch-racks was occupied. It was also a big night for the games at the Short Horn saloon, as every cowpuncher made it a point to borrow or draw enough money to make the trip worth while. Already the rasping notes of a fiddler tuning his instrument filtered out through the open windows of the big upstairs dance-hall across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Cowpunchers, suffering in celluloid collars, tight boots, and exuding odors of Jockey Club and cologne, were at the bar; trying to appear at ease, as if this sartorial splendor were nothing unusual. From somewhere Slim Hunter had procured an old dress coat, which exhibited a vast expanse of his red-and-green striped shirt, and did not blend well with his light blue trousers and yellow boots. Banty Harrison, sans vest, but with a great, striped Ascot tie, was perspiring freely, trying to keep the thing on his collar. But no one criticized their apparel. Everyone was there to have a good time, regardless of clothes.