But Dry Bottom ignored the gun-men, or smiled blandly at them, giving its attention to Ben Allen's posters and discussing a rumor which had gained rapid credence, to the effect that the new governor had telegraphed Allen that he would hold a detail of United States soldiers in readiness for any contingency. The good citizens smiled. And throughout the day many of them passed and repassed the _Kicker_ office, anxious to get a glimpse of the man who had been instrumental in bringing about this innovation. Shortly after noon on the same day Dunlavey rode into Dry Bottom, dismounted, hitched his pony to the rail in front of the Fashion, and entered. In former days Dunlavey's appearance within the doors of the Fashion was the signal for boisterous greetings. For here might always be found the law's chief advocates. To-day, however, there were no greetings. Minds were filled with vague and picturesque conjecture concerning Dunlavey's probable actions and the outcome of this strange affair. Thus upon Dunlavey's entrance a silence--strange and awkward--fell in the bar-room. There were short nods and men fell away from Dunlavey as he crossed the room and came to a halt before one of Ben Allen's posters. He read every line of it--every word. No man interrupted him. Then, finishing his reading, he turned and faced the crowd, his face white with wrath, his lips snarling. "Why in hell didn't some of you damned fools tear this down?" he demanded. No man felt it incumbent upon him to reply to this and Dunlavey watched them for an instant, sneering, his eyes glittering menacingly. Then he suddenly turned, seized the poster, savagely tore it into pieces, hurled the pieces to the floor, and stamped upon them. Then he turned again to the silent crowd, his face inflamed, his voice snapping with a bitter, venomous sarcasm. "Scared!" he said. "Scared out clean--like a bunch of coyotes runnin' from the daylight!" He made a strange sound with his lips, expressing his unutterable contempt for men so weakly constituted. "Quit!" he grated. "Quit clean because a tenderfoot comes out here and tries to run things! So long as things come your way you're willing to stick it out, but when things go the other way--Ugh!" He turned abruptly, strode out through the door, mounted his pony, and rode rapidly down the street. Several of the men, who went to the door after his departure, saw him riding furiously toward the Circle Cross. Then one of his former friends laughed harshly--sarcastically. "I reckon that there tenderfoot is botherin' Big Bill a whole lot," he said as he turned to the bar. * * * * *