“That’s right, Leon,” the Ramblin’ Kid chuckled, “you got th’ four-bits—­that’s all you won!”

“But pay me—­” Leon whined.

“I’ll pay you, you dirty crook!” Skinny snapped as he slapped the soppy, egg-splattered shirt in Leon’s face.  “I’ll pay you with that!  The next time,” he added as he and the Ramblin’ Kid started down the street—­“anybody asks for a size fifteen shirt don’t give them a sixteen and a half!”

The day was spent idling about town waiting for Sabota to return so Skinny could get some whisky and drown his disappointment in love in intoxicated forgetfulness.

After supper Skinny and the Ramblin’ Kid went to the picture show—­Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were “movie nights” in Eagle Butte—­and saw a thrilling “wild-west” drama in which a band of Holstein milk cows raced madly through an alfalfa field in a frenzied, hair-raising stampede!  When the show was over the Ramblin’ Kid started toward the livery barn.

“What you going to do?” Skinny queried.

“I was just goin’ to get Captain Jack,” the Ramblin’ Kid replied.

“What for?” Skinny asked as they moved toward the barn.  “There ain’t no hurry about getting back to the ranch.  We won’t be going out till to-morrow or next day—­there ain’t no use getting the horses out to-night.”

“I don’t know,” the Ramblin’ Kid answered, without stopping, “I just got a hunch to get him in case I need him.  Anyhow, it won’t hurt him to stand out a while—­they’ve been eatin’ all day.”

“Then I’ll get Old Pie Face, too,” Skinny replied.

They saddled the bronchos and rode out of the barn.

“Where’ll we go?” Skinny asked.

“Reckon we’d better go back down to Sabota’s,” the Ramblin’ Kid said as they turned their horses in the direction of the pool-room, “if you still insist on makin’ a blamed fool of yourself an’ gettin’ drunk.  Maybe Mike’s back by now.  Anyhow, there might be a little poker game goin’ on—­I saw a couple of the fellers from over on th’ Purgatory come in a while ago!”

They left Captain Jack and Pie Face standing, with bridle reins dropped, across the street and in the broad shaft of light streaming from the open door of the pool-room, and went into the resort.

The place was well filled.  Sabota had returned, evidently with an ample supply of the fiery stuff he called “whisky.”  Like vultures that unerringly seek and find the spot where a carcass has fallen the thirsty of Eagle Butte had gathered at the Elite Amusement Parlor.

Inside the door of the pool-room and at the left, as one entered, was a hardwood bar eighteen or twenty feet long and over which at one time, in the days before Eagle Butte “reformed,” had been dispensed real “tarantula juice.”  The back bar, with its big mirrors and other fixtures, was as it had been when the place was a regular saloon.  At the right of the room, opposite the bar, were several