“Was all of these men in the place at midnight when No. 3 come in?” The bartender smoothed his bald head in grave thought. He had taken a goodly amount of drinks since the boys got in. Owl eyed, he tallied the crowd. “Near as I kin recollect, Dick, not a man o’ them has left since I come back from supper at eleven.” “Then that alibis this bunch of cow dodgers,” and the sheriff moved on out and down the street. * * * * * The robbery gave the cowpunchers a meaty topic for talk--talk and more drinks. They hit upon the idea of following Dick Powell in his sleuthing. From one saloon to the next they waddled in the wake of the annoyed sheriff. The crowd had taken on numbers until by the time they reached the Bloody Heart the entire outfit was crowded into the saloon. Various bartenders had furnished iron-clad alibis for every Circle C man. Powell gave up in disgust and slipped away from the throng, which was growing somewhat boisterous. Horace followed the sheriff out the back door. Twenty-five cowpunchers set about to make the most of the momentous occasion. Months of hard work in the saddle and branding corrals without a holiday, long days from the crack of dawn until dark, with two hours night guard for good measure, had starved them for a little fun. These men belonged to a breed that has no equal. For forty dollars a month and grub they ride mean horses, face death and hunger and thirst and cold and bitter discomforts. They ask no favors, whine out no complaint, taking the good along with the bad. It is all in a day’s work. Most of them were cowmen at twelve years of age. At sixty there would be much of the boy left in their big hearts. It is not for those who have not known their breed to censure their faults. They lived according to their lights. John Law and his rules meant little in their lives. They had a way of settling personal affairs, those men who roamed the West in the Eighties when the country needed them. So they held kangaroo court. The bartender at the Bloody Heart was found guilty and fined several rounds of drinks. Then they moved on to the next saloon and again held court. Another dispenser of redeye was found guilty. Guilty as hell, by ballot. The fine was duly paid in liquid form. And at daybreak they had routed the sheriff from his warm bed, stood him up on the bar, clad in a knee length nightshirt, boots, hat and a cold cigaret. Ballots were passed, signed and dropped in Dick’s hat. He read them, one by one. “Guilty as hell.” “Gash damn’ you bonehead, misfit, loco idiots!” But he paid the fine, setting out the glasses and bottle with his own hand. It was a large night. Guns popped jubilant greeting to a day that held no hard ride after stray cattle.