To-night the innocents had certainly come to town, and Drybone was furnishing to them all its joys.  Their many horses stood tied at every post and corner—­patient, experienced cow-ponies, well knowing it was an all-night affair.  The talk and laughter of the riders was in the saloons; they leaned joking over the bars, they sat behind their cards at the tables, they strolled to the post-trader’s to buy presents for their easy sweethearts their boots were keeping audible time with the fiddle at Mrs. Slaghammer’s.  From the multitude and vigor of the sounds there, the dance was being done regularly.  “Regularly” meant that upon the conclusion of each set the gentleman led his lady to the bar and invited her to choose and it was also regular that the lady should choose.  Beer and whiskey were the alternatives.

Lin McLean’s horse took him across the square without guiding from the cow-puncher, who sat absently with his hands folded upon the horn of his saddle.  This horse, too, was patient and experienced, and could not know what remote thoughts filled his master’s mind.  He looked around to see why his master did not get off lightly, as he had done during so many gallant years, and hasten in to the conviviality.  But the lonely cow-puncher sat mechanically identifying the horses of acquaintances.

“Toothpick Kid is here,” said he, “and Limber Jim, and the Doughie.  You’d think he’d stay away after the trouble he—­I expect that pinto is Jerky Bill’s.”

“Go home!” said a hearty voice.

McLean eagerly turned.  For the moment his face lighted from its sombreness.  “I’d forgot you’d be here,” said he.  And he sprang to the ground.  “It’s fine to see you.”

“Go home!” repeated the Governor of Wyoming, shaking his ancient friend’s hand.  “You in Drybone to-night, and claim you’re reformed?

“Yu’ seem to be on hand yourself,” said the cow-puncher, bracing to be jocular, if he could.

“Me!  I’ve gone fishing.  Don’t you read the papers?  If we poor governors can’t lock up the State House and take a whirl now and then—­”

“Doc,” interrupted Lin, “it’s plumb fine to see yu’!” Again he shook hands.

“Why, yes! we’ve met here before, you and I.”  His Excellency the Hon. Amory W. Barker, M.D., stood laughing, familiar and genial, his sound white teeth shining.  But behind his round spectacles he scrutinized McLean.  For in this second hand-shaking was a fervor that seemed a grasp, a reaching out, for comfort.  Barker had passed through Separ.  Though an older acquaintance than Billy, he had asked Jessamine fewer and different questions.  But he knew what he knew.  “Well, Drybone’s the same old Drybone,” said he.  “Sweet-scented hole of iniquity!  Let’s see how you walk nowadays.”

Lin took a few steps.

“Pooh!  I said you’d never get over it.”  And his Excellency beamed with professional pride.  In his doctor days Barker had set the boy McLean’s leg; and before it was properly knit the boy had escaped from the hospital to revel loose in Drybone on such another night as this.  Soon he had been carried back, with the fracture split open again.