Purdy nodded: "Yes. It don't hurt no one, only it puts 'em to sleep fer mebbe it's three er four hours. I'll get some from Doc an' yer goin' to slip a little into Tex Benton's booze. Then he jest nach'lly dozes off an' the boys thinks he's spliflicated an' takes him down to the hotel an' puts him to bed, an' before he wakes up I'll have the buckin' contest, an' the ropin' contest, an' most of the rest of it in my war-bag. I hain't afraid of none of the rest of the boys hornin' in on the money--an' 'tain't the money I want neither; I want to win them contests particular--an' I'm a-goin' to." Without removing his elbows from the bar, Cinnabar Joe nodded toward the door: "You git to hell out o' here!" he said, quietly. "I don't set in no game with you, see? I don't want none o' your chips. Of all the God-damned low-lived----" "If I was you," broke in the cowpuncher with a meaning look, "I'd choke off 'fore I'd got in too fer to back out." Something in the glint of the black eyes caused the bartender to pause. Purdy laughed, tossed the butt of his cigarette to the floor, and began irrelevantly: "It's hell--jest hell with the knots an' bark left on--that Nevada wild horse range is." The cowpuncher noted that Cinnabar Joe ceased suddenly to puff his cigar. "It's about seven year, mebbe it's eight," he continued, "that an outfit got the idee that mebbe Pete Barnum had the wild horse business to hisself long enough. Four of 'em was pretty rough hands, an' the Kid was headed that way.