Pop Burns sat quietly in the saddle, facing the restaurant. A close observer could have seen that his revolver was loose in its holster, and the rifle he had removed from its case on the saddle was held lightly in his hands, ready for action. Suddenly, from within the restaurant, came a cry of alarm. A moment’s silence, and another cry of alarm rent the quiet air. Like a flash Pop Burns slipped from his saddle. “Come on, boys!” he yelled, making a dash for the door. “Inside! Fast! We gotta help the boss!” CHAPTER VI THE THREE HORSEMEN When Mr. Manley entered Rimor’s he looked sharply about him. After the bright sunshine of the street, the subdued light in the restaurant, due to shaded windows, caused the cattleman to squint his eyes. He hitched up his belt, from which, in a holster, hung a heavy revolver, and walked forward. A bar, ostensibly for the serving of soft drinks, ran from the front of Rimor’s place to the rear. To the right of this, on the other side of the room, were a number of tables, three with signs on them, “Reserved for Ladies.” These tables were the excuse for the title “Restaurant.” An odor of staleness permeated the room. Flies buzzed lazily in the hot, close air. When the ranchman entered the only other person in the place was the bartender, an aproned figure with “New York” plainly written on his patent leather shoes and slick plastered-down hair. He sat on a chair in front of the bar, eagerly reading a week-old copy of a Manhattan paper. As the cattleman approached, the barkeeper raised his eyes from the paper and calmly surveyed Mr. Manley. “Well, Manley, what can I do for you?” he asked in a surly voice. Bardwell Manley was no favorite with the Rimor outfit. “You might do a whole lot,” Mr. Manley replied slowly. “Then, again, you might not. You know a puncher who hangs around here with a checkered shirt?” “Do I know a puncher who hangs around here with a checkered shirt?” the barkeeper repeated. “Well, now, I can’t say that I do. There’s plenty of punchers that come in here, but I never knew one yet that hung around with a checkered shirt. Sure it’s the puncher, and not a collar that you’re lookin’ for?” Mr. Manley flushed beneath his tan, but he held himself in check. “I guess you know right enough what I mean,” he said genially. “So you ain’t seen him, hey?” “No, I ain’t,” the man replied, with an accent of irony on the last word. He resumed his reading. Mr. Manley stood for a moment looking down at the hunched figure before him. He tightened his jaw, and little knobs of muscles showed just below his ears. To those who knew Bardwell Manley, this was a sign not to be ignored. “Mind if I take a look around?” the cattleman said easily. “Nope! Go as far as you like.” The barkeeper did not look up. Mr. Manley walked toward the rear of the place. As he did so, a man stepped from a side door and confronted him. It was the cowboy in the checkered shirt. “Lookin’ for some one?” he asked.