There were but a few people about the streets as he rode into town and these gave him but a casual glance. If they classified him at all, they put him down as some kid from a distant ranch. He wore no gun that could be seen, his shirt and jeans were tattered and torn. Princess was the personification of a tired, worked-out old horse. Her head drooped, her feet shuffled up little clouds of dust as she ambled along. No one would have taken her for one of the most famous horses in the West, nor her rider as the most famous outlaw of all time. Allen swung from his horse before the Wichita Hotel, dropped the reins over the hitch rack and stood for a moment gazing about like a gawky country boy on his first visit to town. He wandered aimlessly along the street. Spying a store that displayed candy bars in its window, he entered and reappeared a moment later sucking at a brightly colored candy bar. Munching the candy, he slipped through the doors of the hotel and entered the bar. There was no one there, so he walked briskly toward the wall where they had posted the bills for the men who were wanted. He found one for himself, but he gave a sigh of relief when he noted it was an old one and did not have his picture. He also found one for Slivers Joe Hart, which offered a reward of five hundred dollars for that young man, dead or alive. He was reading this when some one entered the room. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a stout, one-armed man, of about fifty, whom he surmised to be "One-wing" McCann, the owner of the hotel. "Hello, bub! Lookin' for your own picture or figgerin' on nabbin' some of them gents?" McCann asked genially. "Naw, I was just lookin'," Allen said awkwardly. "Where did yuh come from an' where yuh goin'?" "I come from down Fort Worth way an' I'm driftin' aroun' lookin' for a job," Allen replied. "I'm goin' out to the Double R to-morrow. Spur Treadwell, the manager, is a friend of mine. Want to go along an' ast him for a job?" One-wing asked. "Sure--but I don't want no job peeling potatoes," Allen complained. "Yuh be aroun' at seven to-morrow, an' I'll take yuh out an' make Spur give yuh a job as top hand," the older man chuckled. One-wing McCann was the sort who would do a favor for some one if it did not cost him effort or money, but his generosity did not run to staking a ragged, homeless boy to a dinner and bed. He walked behind the bar and helped himself to a drink. Allen wandered out into the street. It was dark now, and he made for a small restaurant he had seen when he entered the town. Having tucked away a beefsteak and some coffee, he wandered forth again and peered into the various saloons. He carefully studied each man he saw, but found none whom he knew or who might know him.