Carver left his horse in a lean-to shed in rear of a two-room frame house in the outskirts of town. The plot of ground on which it stood, consisting of three corner lots, had come into his possession the preceding winter through the medium of a poker hand. Instead of disposing of the tract for ten dollars--the amount of chips which he had risked against it--it had pleased him to retain it and construct thereon the little board house, performing the work himself during leisure hours. He headed for the swinging doors of the Silver Dollar, hopeful of finding congenial companionship even though this was the wrong time of day for any considerable activity within doors. A group of men sat along the rear wall and conversed in listless tones. Here were those upon whom fortune had failed to smile the preceding night, waiting for some kindred spirit who, more favored than themselves, might express a willingness to relieve their temporary distress. “It’s high noon and I’ll wager not a man present has even had his breakfast,” Carver greeted. “But the rescue squad is here to provide nourishment for the losers.” He tendered a crisp bill to Alf Wellman. “Fill the boys with food,” he invited. “And in the meantime, while they’re deciding what to order--” and he motioned toward the polished bar. Wellman jerked a casual thumb in the direction of the three men in the group who were unknown to Carver. “These are the Lassiter boys,” he announced by way of introduction. “Not bad after you get to knowing ’em.” The three Lassiters were an oddly assorted crew; Milt, the eldest, a gaunt, dark man who spoke but seldom; Noll, a sandy, self-assertive and unprepossessing individual; while Bart, by several years their junior, was a big blond youngster whose genial grin cemented Carver’s instant friendship. Noll Lassiter hitched from his chair, his eyes resting on the bank note in Wellman’s hand, and as he attained his feet a slight lurch testified to the fact that even if he had not found food during the morning hours he had at least found drink. Being thus fortified his desire for food was now uppermost. “Let’s eat,” he said. “Restrain yourself,” the younger brother admonished. “The gentleman’s giving a party. Besides it’s downright harmful to eat breakfast on an empty stomach--and mine is absolutely vacant.” “Worst thing you could do,” Wellman seconded. “It will show up on a man if he keeps at it.” “I expect there have been folks tried it and went right on living till they got kicked by a horse or died some other sort of a natural death,” said Carver. “But what’s the use of taking chances?” Noll restrained his urge for food while the host paid for two rounds, then reverted to his original contention. “And now,” said he, “let’s eat.” “Not until I’ve purchased a return round for our old friend Carver,” Bart dissented. “How’re you going to manage it without a dime in your pockets?” Noll demanded.