“Not the way you landed,” countered the unfeeling Swing.  “You’re tryin’ to get off the trail again.  Here you and me plan her all out to go to—­”

“You bet,” burst in Racey, enthusiastically.  “We planned to go to either the Bar S or the Cross-in-a-box and get that job.  Shore we did.  You got a memory like all outdoors.  Swing.  It plumb amazes me how clear and straight you keep everything in that head of yores.  Yep, it shore does.”

Hereupon, in the most unconcerned manner, Racey Dawson began to blow smoke rings toward the ceiling.

Swing Tunstall sank sulkily down upon an elbow.  “Whatsa use?” said Swing Tunstall.  “Whatsa use?”

It was then that someone knocked upon their chamber door.

“Come in,” said Racey Dawson.

The door opened and Lanpher’s comrade of the attractive smile and the ruthless profile walked into the room.  He closed the door without noise, spread his legs, and looked upon the two friends silently.

“I heard you talking through the wall,” he said in a studiedly low tone, a tone that, heard through a partition, would have been but an indistinguishable murmur.

“Hearing us talk through walls seems to be a habit in this hotel,” commented Racey, tactfully following the other’s lead in lowness of tone.

“I couldn’t help hearing,” apologized the stranger—­he was vestless and bootless.  Evidently he had been on the point of retiring when the spirit moved him to visit his fellow-guests.  “I’d like to talk to you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Racey, hospitably yanking his trousers from the only chair the room possessed.  “Sit down.”

The stranger sat.  Racey Dawson, sitting on the bed, his knees on a level with his chin, clasped his hands round his bare ankles and accorded the stranger his closest attention.  To the casual observer, however, Racey looked uncommonly dull and sleepy, even stupid.  But not too stupid.  Racey possessed too much native finesse to overdo it.

It was apparent that the stranger did not recognize him.  Which was not surprising.  For, at the Dale ranch, Racey had been wearing all his clothes and a beard of weeks.  Now he was clean-shaven and attired in nothing but a flannel shirt.  True, the stranger must have heard him singing to Miss Dale.  But a singing voice is far different from a speaking voice, and Racey had not uttered a single conversational word in the stranger’s presence.  Now he had occasion to bless this happy chance.

Swing Tunstall, slow to take a cue, and still suffering with the sulks, continued to lie quietly, his head supported on a bent arm, and smoke.  But he watched the stranger narrowly.

The stranger tilted back his chair, and levering with his toes, teetered to and fro in silence.

“I heard you say you were looking for a job in the morning,” the stranger said suddenly to Racey.

“You heard right,” nodded Racey.