Morning was well advanced when Walker arose, and began operations by moving the furniture about in an excited manner, to attract the attention of those in the bar below, and convey an idea of search.  Presently he went to the door of the room, and, uttering an Indian howl, by way of securing immediate attendance, cried out,—­

“Hullo, below! where’s my pants?—­bar-keeper, fetch along my pants!—­landlord, I don’t want to be troublesome, but just take off them pants, if you happen to have mistook ’em for your own, and oblige the right owner with a look at ’em, will you?”

Puzzled at this address, which was couched in much stronger language—­according to old Quatreaux’s version of it—­than I should like to commit to paper, the landlord and bar-keeper at once proceeded to Walker’s room, where they found him sitting, expectantly, on the side of the bed, with his horse-pistols gathered together beside him.  Of course, they denied all knowledge of his pantaloons,—­didn’t steal nobody’s pants in that house, nor nothin’.

Walker looked sternly at them, and, playing with one of his pistols, exclaimed, with the usual redundants,—­

“You lie!—­you’ve stole my pants between you; you’ve found out what they were worth by this time, I guess; but I’ll have ’em back, and that in a hurry, or else my name a’n’t Walker,—­Peter Walker.”

He added his Christian name, because a reminiscence of the mystery belonging to his patronymic by itself flashed upon him.

Now the name of Pete Walker was potent along the frontier, because of his influence with the wild mountain-men, who did reckless deeds on his account, unknown to him and otherwise.  Another vision than that of last night overcame the landlord,—­a vision of Lynch and ashes.

“So you’re Pete Walker, be you?” asked he, in a tone of mingled respect and admiration, slightly tremulous with fear.  “How do you do, Mr. Walker?—­how do you find yourself this morning, Sir?”

“I didn’t come here to find myself,” retorted Walker, fiercely.  “I found my door open, though, when I woke up,—­but I couldn’t find my pants.  You must get ’em, or pay for ’em, and that right away.”

“Them cusses that passed through here last night!” exclaimed the landlord.  “I guess the pants is gone on the sundown trail, stripes and all.”

Walker thought it was quite probable that they had; but they were stolen from that house, and the house must pay for them.

Lynch and ashes again blazed before the landlord’s eyes.

“How much might the pants be worth, now, at cost price?” asked he.  “All wool, you say, only the stripes; but, as they was nearly all stripes, you needn’t holler much about the wool, I reckon.  How much, now?”

“Two hundred and ten dollars,” replied Walker, with impressive exactness.

“Thunder!” exclaimed the landlord.  “I thought they might be fancy-priced, sure-ly, but that’s awful!”