"I wouldn't go tellin' that to everybody," Bill McAllister warned. "Isn't it exciting? I think Slivers has a friend working on the ranch." "Look here, Dot. Mebbe Slivers has a friend in our outfit, mebbe Slivers is right close--but yuh got to remember that if yuh tol' the wrong person, mebbe that friend an' Slivers would die pronto. So don't yuh go talkin' to nobody--nobody a-tall!" McAllister warned her. The gravity of his expression made her eyes cloud with fear. She thought for a moment and then nodded. "I won't tell any one," she agreed. It was close to noon when they arrived in Malboro. As they turned into the livery stable, a rider swung from a big dun horse and addressed the hostler. "Feller, don't be skimpin' the oats. Gents call me Toothpick Jarrick, 'cause I sure whittle hombres, what rile me, to the size of toothpicks." He removed one of those implements from the corner of his mouth and held it up for the holster's inspection. "Yuh see that? That's all what's left of the gent what last annoyed me. Now, on the contrary, if I likes a gent, I buys him plenty of drinks." The hostler grinned at him, then both became conscious of Dot Reed and Bill McAllister. The hostler ran forward to take the horses, while Toothpick stared in frank admiration at Dot Reed and regretted his own travel-stained and dusty appearance. He watched the old man and the girl walk down the street. "Who's she?" he asked. "That's Dot Reed, the owner of the Double R. That gent what is crossin' over to her is Spur Treadwell, her sweetie," the hostler explained as he deftly unhitched the sweating horses from the buckboard. Spur Treadwell walked across the road with an arrogant grace. He swept off his hat as he neared the girl, and then the three of them entered McCann's hotel. "Yep, I'm tellin' the worl' that gent is the first gent I ever see what is handsomer than me, an' I don't blame that gal none," Toothpick said. "Shucks!" The hostler looked him up and down and then shook his head. "Feller, yuh ain't never looked into a lookin'-glass, I'm bettin' plenty on that, 'cause my eyesight is plumb good an' I finds yuh about as handsome as a chuckwalla horned toad." The two watered and fed the horses, then headed across the street toward the Lone Star Saloon to attend to their own personal wants. The saloon was a long, low room. At the rear four men were playing pool; the bar itself was deserted, except for the McGill twins. When the hostler saw them, he attempted to back out, but Toothpick pushed him forward. "Barkeeper, push out a bottle. Gents, what's yourn?" The last was addressed to the McGill twins. Like a pair of puppets worked by the same string, the twins slowly turned toward Toothpick and allowed their hard, cold eyes to wander from his dusty boots up along his worn jeans to come to rest on his face. Toothpick's expression never changed as he met their searching gaze. The hostler fidgeted uneasily and looked everywhere excepting at the killers.