“C.  BENNETT, Dry Lake: 
  Can’t get a man here for love or money.  Have
  tried both, and held one up with a gun.  No use. 
  Couldn’t top a saw horse.  For the Lord’s sake,
  send somebody I know.  I want Irish and Pink
  and Happy—­and I want them bad.  Get a move on. 
    W. DAVIDSON.”

Chip grinned when he read it, paid the bill, and told the three to get ready to hit the trail.  And the three grinned answer and immediately became very busy; hitting the trail, in this case, meant catching the next train out of Dry Lake, for there were horses bought with the cattle, and much time would be saved by making up an outfit down there.

Weary rode dispiritedly into Sleepy Trail (which Irish usually spoke of as Camas, because it had but lately been rechristened to avoid conflictions with another Camas farther up on Milk River).  Weary thought, as he dismounted from Glory, which he had brought with him from home, that Sleepy Trail fitted the place exactly, and that whenever he heard Irish refer to it as Camas, he would call him down and make him use this other and more appropriate title.

Sleepy it was, in that hazy sunshine of mid fore-noon, and apparently deserted.  He tied Glory to the long hitching pole where a mild-eyed gray stood dozing on three legs, and went striding, rowels a-clank, into the saloon.  He had not had any answer to his telegram, and the world did not look so very good to him.  He did not know that Pink and Irish and Happy Jack were even then speeding over the prairies on the eastbound train from Dry Lake, to meet him.  He had come to Sleepy Trail to wait for the next stage, on a mere hope of some message from the Flying U.

The bartender looked up, gave a little, welcoming whoop and leaned half over the bar, hand extended.  “Hello, Irish!  Lord!  When did you get back?”

Weary smiled and shook the hand with much emphasis.  Irish had once created a sensation in Dry Lake by being taken for Weary; Weary wondered if, in the guise of Irish, there might not be some diversion for him here in Sleepy Trail.  He remembered the maxim “Turn about is fair play,” and immediately acted thereon.

“I just came down from the Flying U the other day,” he said.

The bartender half turned, reached a tall, ribbed bottle and two glasses, and set them on the bar before Weary.  “Go to it,” he invited cordially.  “I’ll gamble yuh brought your thirst right along with yuh—­and that’s your pet brand.  Back to stay?”

Weary poured himself a modest “two fingers,” and wondered if he had better claim to have reformed; Irish could—­and did—­drink long and deep, where Weary indulged but moderately.

“No,” he said, setting the glass down without refilling.  “They sent me back on business.  How’s everything?”

The bartender spoke his wonder at the empty glass, listened while Weary explained how he had cut down his liquid refreshments “just to see how it would go, and which was boss,” and then told much unmeaning gossip about men and women Weary had never heard of before.