The bottle of whisky was still in the bosom of Skinny’s shirt.

He had not touched it.  He felt a sudden revulsion for the vile stuff.

“Here,” he said, jerking the flask from its hiding-place and handing it to the hostler, “maybe you’d like that bottle of ’rot-gut’—­I’ve swore off!”

“I ain’t,” the stableman laughed and took it eagerly.

Skinny remained in town that night and the next day, waiting for Parker and the Quarter Circle KT cowboys to come in with the beef cattle.  They arrived about noon.  Old Heck drove in with the Clagstone “Six.”  Ophelia and Carolyn June came with him.  Skinny met them when Old Heck stopped the in front of the Occidental Hotel.  He told them, while they still sat in the automobile, of the fight and the escape of the Ramblin’ Kid.

“A drunken brawl!” Carolyn June thought, a wave of disgust sweeping over her.

“Th’ Ramblin’ Kid hadn’t touched a drop,” Skinny said, explaining the fight and almost as if he were answering her unspoken thought.  “If he’d been drinking, I reckon Sabota would have killed him instead of his beating the Greek blamed near to death.  I know now what he used to mean when he’d say, ‘A man’s a fool to put whisky in him when he’s facin’ a tight squeeze!’ The little devil sure needed everything he had—­nerve and head and muscle and all—­for the job he tackled last night!”

Skinny didn’t tell them that his hand had rested on the handle of his own gun—­determined that he, himself, would kill Sabota if the brute succeeded in choking the Ramblin’ Kid to death.

“What was the fight about?” Old Heck asked.

“A pink ribbon or something with a little silver do-funny on it—­it looked like a sleeve-holder or a garter—­dropped out of th’ Ramblin’ Kid’s pocket and Sabota made a nasty remark about it,” Skinny said.

Carolyn June caught her breath and her face flushed.

“The Greek said something about Carolyn June, I didn’t just hear what,” Skinny continued, “and then he smashed the ribbon under his foot.  The next instant th’ Ramblin’ Kid was trying to kill him!

“It’s a pity he didn’t succeed!” Old Heck exclaimed.  “The damned filthy whelp—­excuse me, Ophelia, for cussing, but I just had to say It!”

“It’s all right,” was the laughing rejoinder, “I—­I—­wanted to say it myself!”

Carolyn June’s eyes glowed.  Her heart felt as if a weight had been lifted from it So, the Ramblin’ Kid had kept the odd souvenir, and he cared—­he cared!

“Go ahead,” she whispered to Skinny; “what then?”

“I reckon that’s about all,” Skinny answered.  “Th’ Ramblin’ Kid smashed Sabota and as he staggered back, picked up the ribbon—­then he didn’t quit till he thought the Greek was dead.  Tom Poole arrested him, but th’ Ramblin’ Kid got the drop on him and got away.  He was justified in beating Sabota up anyhow,” he added, “on account of the dirty cuss hiring a feller to ‘dope’ him so he couldn’t ride the maverick the day of the big race—­”