In a moment the sleeper raised his head. Bob saw a little, middle-aged man, not over five feet six in height, slenderly built, yet with broad, hanging shoulders. His head was an almost exact inverted pyramid, the base formed by a mop of red-brown hair, and the apex represented by a very pointed chin. Two level, oblong patches of hair made eyebrows. His face was white and nervous. A strong, hooked nose separated a pair of red-brown eyes, small and twinkling, like a chipmunk's. Just now they were bloodshot and vague. "Hullo, Dicky Darrell," said Tally. The man struggled to his feet, knocking over the chair, and laid both hands effusively on Tally's shoulders. "Jim!" he cried thickly. "Good ole Jim! Glad to see you! Hav' drink!" Tally nodded, and, to Bob's surprise, took his place at the bar. "Hav' 'nother!" cried Darrell. "God! I'm glad to see you! Nobody in town." "All right," agreed Tally pacifically; "but let's go across the river to Dugan's and get it." To this Darrell readily agreed. They left the saloon. Bob, following, noticed the peculiar truculence imparted to Darrell's appearance by the fact that in walking he always held his hands open and palms to the front. Suddenly Darrell became for the first time aware of his presence. The riverman whirled on him, and Bob became conscious of something as distinct as a physical shock as he met the impact of an electrical nervous energy. It passed, and he found himself half smiling down on this little, white-faced man with the matted hair and the bloodshot, chipmunk eyes. "Who'n hell's this!" demanded Darrell savagely. "Friend of mine," said Tally. "Come on." Darrell stared a moment longer. "All right," he said at last. All the way across the bridge Tally argued with his companion. "We've got to have a foreman on the Cedar Branch, Dick," he began, "and you're the fellow." To this Darrell offered a profane, emphatic and contemptuous negative. With consummate diplomacy Tally led his mind from sullen obstinacy to mere reluctance. At the corner of Main Street the three stopped. "But I don't want to go yet, Jim," pleaded Darrell, almost tearfully. "I ain't had all my 'time' yet." "Well," said Tally, "you've been polishing up the flames of hell for four days pretty steady. What more do you want?" "I ain't smashed no rig yet," objected Darrell. Tally looked puzzled. "Well, go ahead and smash your rig and get done with it," he said. "A' right," said Darrell cheerfully. He started off briskly, the others following. Down a side street his rather uncertain gait led them, to the wide-open door of a frame livery stable. The usual loungers in the usual tipped-back chairs greeted him. "Want m' rig," he demanded. A large and leisurely man in shirt sleeves lounged out from the office and looked him over dispassionately. "You've been drunk four days," said he, "have you the price?"