They were rid of the herd by two o’clock and back in camp releasing their tired mounts and catching fresh horses to ride into town. Tex Matthews caught a horse, as did Robin. But when the riders swung up Tex sat on the wagon tongue rolling a cigarette. Robin leaned against a wheel, silently thinking. The _remuda_ was still in the rope corral. He had half a mind to rope out his string, pack his bed, and go home. “Come on, cowboys,” a Block S man called to them. “The first drink’s on me.” Matthews shook his head. “I’m keepin’ the cook and wrangler company,” he drawled. “I’ll save money. There’s a long, hard winter comin’.” Robin said nothing. The riders laughed and departed. The dust rose in a low banner behind them, drifted like smoke on the autumn wind and settled on ground made barren by the trample of ten thousand hoofs. Matthews finished his cigarette, strolled to the cook tent, got himself a biscuit and a bit of cold beef. He returned munching and joined Robin. They squatted on their heels by the wagon. The sun, still lusty, warmed them despite the chill October wind. They talked of inconsequent matters. It was very quiet in camp. From where they sat they could see the gable of the Silver Dollar saloon. Neither man was a hermit by nature. The cow-puncher had the social instinct. He was not fond of loneliness, of inaction. All his work was done _en_ _masse_, with a swing, with the hearty coöperation of his fellows. As they worked so they played. Tex and Robin grew silent. They could picture the rest of the crew swapping yarns and ribald jokes. There would be a poker game or two, town men to meet, perhaps strange riders with gossip from distant ranges--while they sat there in a dead camp. “Hell, let’s ride,” Matthews suggested at last. “I thought I wouldn’t until to-night. But--let’s ride in.” “All right,” Robin agreed. He had given up the notion of leaving the round-up just yet. There might be a stray Bar M Bar picked up. He would see it through. And even if Matthews’ reason had been as stated Robin Tyler had not stayed in camp to avoid needless spending. He doubted if Tex had done so. Between himself and this middle-aged Texan a restrained, wordless friendship seemed to have grown during the fall round-up. Robin suspected Tex had stayed in camp because he himself had showed no inclination to go. And Robin had not ridden in with the cowboys because he knew little pleasure lay in store for him while Steele was in the crowd. He would be wary, uneasy, uncertain what moment Shining Mark would choose to maneuver him into a situation from which he might only emerge feet first. “I guess the crowd’s in Monty’s from the looks,” Tex remarked when they rode in among the houses. “Let’s join ’em and hoist a couple, then go over to the Silver Dollar an’ see if there’s a game goin’. Maybe we could start one. I feel lucky. Will you play?” “I might play ten dollars’ worth,” Robin said.