Tex turned and faced the crowd with insolent slowness. His glance passed from face to face, finding some friendliness, much surprise, and a few frank scowls. He stepped up to the man who had retrieved the puncher’s gun and, ignoring the crowd altogether, took the weapon from the reluctant fingers which held it and went back to the front of the stable, where Graves had succeeded in bringing the prostrate puncher back to consciousness. Tex ran his fingers over the wobbly man’s head and face, grunted, nodded, and smiled. "Bad bruise, but nothin’ is busted. Why there ain’t I’m shore _I_ don’t know. I figgered you was a goner. Here, take yore gun, an’ let us help you into th’ stable." Once on his feet the puncher pushed free from the sustaining hands and staggered to a box just inside the door, where he carefully seated himself, drew the Colt, and rested it on his knees, his blurred, throbbing eyes watching the street. Tex grinned. "You can put that up ag’in--he’s had all he can digest for a little while. Punchin’ for Williams?" "I’m ridin’ for Curtis: C Bar. Over northeast, a couple of hours out. I’m keepin’ th’ gun where it is: th’ miners run this town. Where do you fit in? One of th’ GW gang?" "Nope; I’m all of th’ Tex Jones outfit. Stranger here, but shore gettin’ acquainted rapid. Got any good cayuses for sale out at yore place? Our mutual friend, here, wants th’ Treasury for th’ only good animal he’s got. Bein’ a stranger is a handicap." Graves leaned forward. "That hoss is worth--" he began in great earnestness. "--not one red cent to me, now," interrupted Tex, smiling. "Come to think of it, I ain’t goin’ to buy no hoss, a-tall. I’ve changed my mind." "We got th’ usual run out on th’ ranch," said the injured man. "You know ’em, I reckon. Poor on looks, mean as all h--l, with hearts crowded with sand. I’ll be leavin’ in half an hour if th’ miners don’t interfere--borry a cayuse an’ ride out with me." "Nope," replied Tex. "I ain’t goin’ to buy, a-tall, as I just said." He turned. "Good luck to you, friend. Barrin’ th’ soreness, an’ yore looks yo’re all right," and he went out, picked up the bulging sack, and passed down the street. Leaving the sack with the bartender in the hotel he went on to the station and smiled at the agent, who was joking with a red-headed Irishman. "Hello; here he is now," exclaimed the boss of the depot. "Friend, shake hands with Tim Murphy. Tim, this is Mr.--Mr.----" "Jones," supplied Tex. "Tex Jones, of Montanny, Texas, an’ New York."