“Looks like when a man begun gittin’ white headed,” said Horace as they dropped down the ridge toward town, “he’d have sense enough to save a winter stake.” He did not mean to be unkind. There wasn’t a mean drop of blood in the cow boss’s veins. He was sorry for Buck Bell and hid his softer emotions under the words he now mumbled into the upturned collar of a threadbare coat. Truthfully speaking, Horace himself was prodigal as the rest of the cowpuncher clan. Buck took a last pull at the bit of stub of cigaret and threw it away. Then he chuckled softly. They were riding down the lane that approached town. To the left of them was the Malta graveyard, the wooden slabs whitening with the first snow. “What struck you as bein’ so comical, Buck?” “Just thinkin’ how them boys planted in yonder boothill don’t need worry no more about winter jobs and coonskin coats they ain’t got the coin to buy. I kin name three-four that I bet is plenty warm where they went.” They rode into town and put their horses in the feed barn. The stalls were filling with Circle C horses. There was an unwritten law of the outfit that a man must stable his horse before he got drunk. Over at Dick Powell’s place the boys were paid off. Dick, saloon man and sheriff, voiced his friendly warning. “The town’s your’n, boys, Take care of ’er.” The hard earned money went into swift circulation. The tin horn gamblers opened up their games. Bartenders set up free drinks at proper intervals to the laughing, cussing, free handed men who lined the bar and swapped yarns and thawed out. Boot heels clicked on the pine board floors. Spurs jingled along the streets. “Can’t spend’er all in one place.” They moved along to the next saloon. Crumpled banknotes lay along the bar. The men greeted old friends. Jovial bartenders, most of them old time cowpunchers, wiped right hands on soiled aprons and voiced profane welcome. Fiddles squeaked above the voices loosened by the whisky. Tin pan pianos banged. Lights defied the coming dusk of early night. There would be no night guard to stand tonight. No long circle to ride in the early dawn. While their money lasted these cowboys owned the town. Buck Bell found the nighthawk sitting in a monte game. “Here’s that fifty dollars you still got comin’, Cotton Eye.” The nighthawk looked up, grinned and shook his head. “To hell with you an’ your fifty, Buck. Pay me half when you die. The rest when you come back. I’m winnin’ off this gamblin’ man.” Buck grunted an indistinct thanks and clumped up to the bar. “A little red licker, Dick. Give the boys what they want. Wake up that sheepherder in the corner and tell the gentleman that ol’ Buck Bell is in town. I’m a red eyed wolf from Bitter Crick and it’s my night to howl.” Whereupon he howled long and loud with a quivering, high keyed sadness in his voice. * * * * * “See you later,” Buck said as he moved on out and along the street.