“Maybe Meester Ben don’t find heem.”

“Oh, yes, he will.  Ditch meeting to-night.  Ought to be out about now.  Setting the time to use the water and assessing fatiga work.  Every last man with a water right will be there, sure, and Foy’s got a dozen.  Max, you are to be a witness, remember, and you mustn’t be mixed up in it.  Got your story straight?”

“Foy he comes in and makes a war-talk about Dick Marr,” recited Max.  “After we powwow awhile you see his gun.  You tell him he’s under arrest for carryin’ concealed weapons.  You and Ben grabbed his arm; he jerked loose and went after his gun.  And then Joe shot him.”

“That’s it.  We’ll all stick to that.  S-st!  Here they come!”

There are men whose faces stand out in a crowd, men you turn to look after on the street.  Such—­quite apart from his sprightly past—­was Christopher Foy, who now entered with Creagan.  He was about thirty, above middle height, every mold and line of him slender and fine and strong.  His face was resolute, vivacious, intelligent; his eyes were large and brown, pleasant and fearless.  A wide black hat, pushed back now, showed a broad forehead white against crisp coal-black hair and the pleasant tan of neck and cheek.  But it was not his dark, forceful face alone that lent him such distinction.  Rather it was the perfect poise and balance of the man, the ease and unconscious grace of every swift and sure motion.  He wore a working garb now—­blue overalls and a blue rowdy.  But he wore them with an air that made him well dressed.

Foy paused for a second; Applegate rose.

“Well, Chris!” he laughed.  “There has been a time when you might not have fancied this particular bunch—­hey?  All over now, please the pigs.  Come in and give it a name.  Beer for mine.”

“I’ll smoke,” said Foy.

“Me too,” said Espalin.

He lit a cigar and returned to his chair.  Ben Creagan passed behind the bar and handed over a sixshooter and a cartridge belt.

“Here, Chris—­here’s the gun I borrowed of you when I broke mine.  Much obliged.”

Foy twirled the cylinder to make sure the hammer was on an empty chamber and buckled the belt under his rowdy.

“My hardware is mostly plows and scrappers and irrigating hoes nowadays,” he remarked.  “Good thing too.”

“All the same, Foy, I’d keep a gun with me if I were you.  Dick Marr is drinking again—­and when he soaks it up he gets discontented over old times, you know.”  Applegate lowered his voice, with a significant glance at Espalin.  “He threatened your life to-day.  I thought you ought to know it.”

Foy considered his cigar.

“That’s awkward,” he replied briefly.

“Chris,” said Ben, “this isn’t the first time.  Dick’s heart is bad to you.  I’m sorry.  He was my friend and you were not.  But you’re not looking for any trouble now.  Dick is.  And I’m afraid he’ll keep on till he gets it.  Me and the sheriff we managed to get him off to bed, but he says he’s going to shoot you on sight—­and I believe he means it.  You ought to have him bound over to keep the peace.”