A cup of cold coffee and a pitcher of water followed the meat in the same gulping haste. Tears streamed down the drummer’s red face as he arose and turned toward the door. "Hol’ on, stranger!" snapped Sammy. "That costs six bits," he prompted. The coins rang out on the nearest table, the door slammed and the agonized stranger ran madly down the street, cursing at every jump. Sammy sauntered to the door and craned his neck. "Somebody ’s jus’ naturally goin’ to bust him wide open one of these days. He ain’t got no sense," he muttered, turning back to get his pie. A cloud of dust rolled up from the south, causing Briggs a little uneasiness, and he scowled through the door at the long empty siding and the pens sprawled along it. Steps clacked across the platform and a grinning cowpuncher stopped at the open window. "They’re here," he announced. "How ’bout th’ cars?" Briggs looked around wearily. For three days his life had been made miserable by this pest, who carried a laugh in his eyes, a sting on his tongue and a chip on his shoulder. "They ’ll be here soon," he replied, with little interest. "But there ’s th’ pens." "Yes, there’s th’ pens," smiled Sammy. "They’ll hold ’bout one-tenth of that herd. Ain’t I been pesterin’ you to get them cars?" The agent sighed expressively and listened to the instrument on his table. When it ceased he grabbed the key and asked a question. Then he smiled for the first time that day. "They ’re passing Franklin. Be here in two hours. Now get out of here or I ’ll lick you." "There ’s a nice place in one of them pens," smiled Sammy. "I see you ’re eating at Olmstead’s," parried the agent. "Yea." "Nice girl. Come up last summer when Mrs. Olmstead petered out. I ate there last winter." Sammy grinned at him. "Why ’d you stop?" Briggs grew red and glanced at the nearing cloud of dust. "Better help your outfit, had n’t you?" Sammy was thoughtful. "Say, that’s a plumb favorite eatin’ place, ain’t it?" Briggs laughed. "Wait till Saturday when th’ boys come in. There ’s a dozen shinin’ up to that girl. Tom Clarke is real persistent." Sammy forsook the building as a prop. "Who ’s he? Puncher?" "Yes; an’ bad," replied the agent. "But I reckon she don’t know it." Sammy looked at the dust cloud and turned to ask one more question. "What does this persistent gent look like, an’ where’s he hang out?" He nodded at the verbose reply and strode to his horse to ride toward the approaching herd. He espied Red first, and hailed. "Cars here in two hours. Where ’s Hoppy?" "Back in th’ dust. But what happened to _you_?" demanded Red, with virile interest. Sammy ignored the challenge and loped along the edge of the cloud until he found the trail boss. "Them cars ’ll be here in two hours," he reported. "Take you three days to find it out?" snapped Hopalong. "Took me three days to get ’em. I just about unraveled that agent. He swears every time he hears a noise, thinkin’ it’s me."