“Good.  We’ll show you some targets—­lions, bears, deer, cats, wolves.  There’s a fine forty-four Winchester here that my friend Abe has been trying to sell.  It has a long barrel and weighs eight pounds.  Our desert riders like the light carbines that go easy on a saddle.  Most of the mustangs aren’t weight-carriers.  This rifle has a great range; I’ve shot it, and it’s just the gun for you to use on wolves and coyotes.  You’ll need a Colt and a saddle, too.”

“By-the-way,” he went on, as they mounted the store steps, “here’s the kind of money we use in this country.”  He handed Hare a slip of blue paper, a written check for a sum of money, signed, but without register of bank or name of firm.  “We don’t use real money,” he added.  “There’s very little coin or currency in southern Utah.  Most of the Gentiles lately come in have money, and some of us Mormons have a bag or two of gold, but scarcely any of it gets into circulation.  We use these checks, which go from man to man sometimes for six months.  The roundup of a check means sheep, cattle, horses, grain, merchandise or labor.  Every man gets his real money’s value without paying out an actual cent.”

“Such a system at least means honest men,” said Hare, laughing his surprise.

They went into a wide door to tread a maze of narrow aisles between boxes and barrels, stacks of canned vegetables, and piles of harness and dry goods; they entered an open space where several men leaned on a counter.

“Hello, Abe,” said Naab; “seen anything of Snap?”

“Hello, August.  Yes, Snap’s inside.  So’s Holderness.  Says he rode in off the range on purpose to see you.”  Abe designated an open doorway from which issued loud voices.  Hare glanced into a long narrow room full of smoke and the fumes of rum.  Through the haze he made out a crowd of men at a rude bar.  Abe went to the door and called out:  “Hey, Snap, your dad wants you.  Holderness, here’s August Naab.”

A man staggered up the few steps leading to the store and swayed in.  His long face had a hawkish cast, and it was gray, not with age, but with the sage-gray of the desert.  His eyes were of the same hue, cold yet burning with little fiery flecks in their depths.  He appeared short of stature because of a curvature of the spine, but straightened up he would have been tall.  He wore a blue flannel shirt, and blue overalls; round his lean hips was a belt holding two Colt’s revolvers, their heavy, dark butts projecting outward, and he had on high boots with long, cruel spurs.

“Howdy, father?” he said.

“I’m packing to-day,” returned August Naab.  “We ride out to-morrow.  I need your help.”

“All-l right.  When I get my pinto from Larsen.”

“Never mind Larsen.  If he got the better of you let the matter drop.”

“Jeff got my pinto for a mustang with three legs.  If I hadn’t been drunk I’d never have traded.  So I’m looking for Jeff.”