“Gosh, lookey yonder,” he muttered, “that must be Old Heck drivin’ his new automobile—­th’ darn fool is goin’ to bust something some day, runnin’ that car the way he does!”

Walking quickly, to escape the heat, he crossed the street to the station.

Two minutes later the cloud of dust trailed a rakish, trim-lined, high-powered, purring Clagstone “Six” to a stop in front of the Occidental Hotel and Old Heck and Skinny Rawlins climbed glumly and stiffly from the front seat, after the thirty-minute, twenty-mile run from the Quarter Circle KT.

Old Heck had his peculiarities.  One of them was insistence for the best—­absolutely or nothing.  The first pure-bred, hot-blood stallions turned on the Kiowa range carried the Quarter Circle KT brand on their left shoulders.  He wanted quality in his stock and spent thousands of dollars importing bulls and stallions to get it.  When the automobile came it was the same.  No jit for the erratic owner of the last big genuine cow-ranch on the Cimarron.  Consequently the beautiful car—­a car fit for Fifth Avenue—­standing now in front of the old hotel in Eagle Butte.

The smoke on the northeastern sky-line was yet some miles away.

The lanky marshal had reached the station.

“It’s a good thing there’s prohibition in this town,” Skinny muttered as he stepped from the car and started brushing the dust from his coat;

“Why?”

“’Cause I’d go get drunk if there wasn’t—.  Wonder if a feller could get any boot-leg liquor?”

“Better leave it alone,” Old Heck warned, “that kind’s worse than none.  It don’t make you drunk—­just gives you the hysterical hydrophobia!’

“Well, I’d drink anything in an emergency like this if I had it,” Skinny declared doggedly.

“Train’s comin’,” Old Heck said shortly; “reckon we’d better go over to the depot—­”

“Let’s wait here till they get off first,” Skinny said.  “We can see them from where we are and kind of size ’em up and it won’t be so sudden.”

“Maybe that would be better,” Old Heck answered.

A moment later Number Seventeen, west-bound Santa Fe passenger train, stopped at the yellow station.  The rear cars were obscured from the view of Skinny and Old Heck by freight sheds along the track.  With the exception of the engine, baggage, mail and express cars, which were hidden by the depot, the rest of the train was in plain sight.

A couple of men got off the day coach.  These were followed by a gawky, weirdly dressed girl of uncertain age carrying an old-fashioned telescope traveling bag.  At sight of the girl Skinny caught his breath with a gasp.  Immediately following her was the tallest, homeliest woman he had ever seen.  Thin to the point of emaciation, a wide striped, ill-fitting dress of some cheap material accentuated the angular lines of her body.  A tiny narrow-brimmed hat, bright green, with a white feather, dingy and soiled, sticking straight up at the back made her more than ever a caricature.  The woman also carried a bag.  The two stepped up to the marshal, standing at the cornet:  of the station, apparently asking him a question.  He answered, pointing as he did to Old Heck and Skinny leaning silently against the side of their car.  The woman and girl started toward them.