Tex looked at the lock and at the bolt receptacle on the door jamb. The lock was fastened securely for most people, seeing that the pressure from being pushed inward would not work against it very much; but the receptacle, the keystone of the door’s defense, was nailed to even poorer wood than the lock itself and he saw at once that any real strain would force it loose. "Shore; good enough," he said. "Have an eye-opener?" Graves accepted with alacrity and in a moment they were smiling across Carney’s bar at the good-natured proprietor. "That hoss ready?" asked Tex when the conversation lulled. "In th’ stall next to th’ roan," answered Carney. "Th’ stable boys went to Europe last night an’ won’t be back till tomorrow; but I reckon you can saddle her yoreself." "I’d rather do it myself," replied Tex. "Labor of love?" queried Carney, grinning. "Measure of precaution," retorted Tex, a slight frown on his face. Carney nodded endorsement. "Can’t take too much," he rejoined. "That goes for every kind, too. Nice gal, she is--though a little mite stuck up. I reckon she----" "Nice day," interrupted Tex, looking straight into the eyes of the proprietor; "though it’s hot, an’ close," he added slowly. "It is that," muttered Carney. "As I was sayin’, you’ll find both hosses ready for saddles," he vouchsafed with slight confusion. "Much obliged," answered Tex with a smile, turning toward the rear door. "See you boys later," he said, going out. In a few minutes they saw him ride past on a nettlesome black which put down its white feet as though spurning contact with the earth. "Whitefoot shore glistens," observed Graves. "She ought to," replied Carney. He mopped off the bar and looked up. "Beats all how them fellers ride," he observed. "They sit a saddle like they’d growed there. An’," he cogitated, "beats all how touchy some of ’em are. I can’t figger him, a-tall," whereupon ensued an exhaustive critique of cowpunchers, their manners, and dispositions. Meanwhile the particular cowpuncher who had started the discussion was riding briskly northeastward along the trail which he knew led to the C Bar, and after he had put a few miles behind him he took a package from his pocket and sowed black powder along the edge of the trail. After a short while he turned and rode back again. Jane Saunders answered the knock and smiled at the self-possessed puncher who faced her, hat in hand. "Come in a moment," she invited, stepping aside. "This coffee is hardly cool enough to be put into the bottles, but it won’t be long before it is. I am so glad you have brought Whitefoot. I have ridden her before." "She’s quite a horse," he replied. "Gaited as easy as any I ever rode." She flashed him a suspicious glance. "Then you’ve ridden her? When, and what for?"