"Bad medicine is this same Mr. Hawkins, particular when he has his gun wid him. Bedad, the kummunity could spare him a whole lot without missing him," Nick volunteered. "If they provoke unto wrath Brother Carston’s outfit, my Christian friend, there will be some useful citizens removed from our midst." The Parson approved of Jim as a remnant of his earlier days. He recognized in him one of his own class. "And who the devil is Jim Carston?" Nick asked. "Jim Carston? Never seen Jim? Oh yes, you must have, although Jim don’t frequent emporiums much. Why Jim’s the English cow-boy. First he had a place about a hundred miles from here. But he’s bought Bull Cowan’s herd. Bull stuck him—stuck him good," Pete lazily informed the crowd. "Sure!" said Nick. "That’s why Englishmen was invented. More power to ’em." "Amen," hiccoughed the Parson, whose drinks by this time had been numerous. "The prosperity of our beloved country would go plumb to Gehenna if an all-wise Providence did not enable us to sell an Englishman a mine or a ranch or two now and again." "Say," Nick asked, seriously, "the Englishman ain’t a-goin’ up agin Cash, is he now?" "I call you, Parson," Pete calmly commanded, and then raked in the pot. "When the smoke has cleared away I will venture an opinion as to who has gone agin who," he resumed, as he pocketed the money. "Jim and his outfit is here to ship some cattle to Chicago. I seed them all through the window, and they ain’t the kind to run away much." There was a finality about Pete’s words. He might be lazy and slow, but he was anxious to open another pot, so he turned his back on Nick and began shuffling the cards. As he did so, three of Jim’s boys—Andy, Shorty, and Grouchy—entered. "Come on boys and have a drink," Shorty yelled. Andy was a wiry, slender German with tender, romantic proclivities. Grouchy, who seldom spoke, and then only in a husky, low growl, was a massive fellow and looked like a Samoan native, but was in reality a product of a Hebrew father and an Irish mother, while Shorty gained his name from his low stature. Brave as a lion and honest, with a face from which twinkled the smallest and merriest of blue eyes, he was the live wire of any ranch. "What’s your nose-paint, gents?" Nick asked, as he greeted the new-comers. "A little of that redeye," Shorty replied, and soon he and his comrades were clinking glasses. Several cow-punchers joined them, and the place began to resound to lively disputes concerning the rates on cattle. Dan and McSorley had finished their beer. "How much?" Dan said. His look plainly showed his contempt for the saloon. It was Nick’s opportunity to pay back the insult that had been quietly levelled at him by the Pullman conductor’s attitude for the past quarter of an hour. "One dollar," was Nick’s quick reply.