“Thank you,” she said, rising and smiling down at him.  “But this will do just as well.  And now, if you’ll wish me good luck...”

She went out followed by a look of much grave speculation.

Meanwhile Buck Thornton, leading his horse after him, crossed the dusty street to the Last Chance saloon.  At the watering trough he watered his horse, and then, slackening the cinch a little, he went inside.  In the front part of the long, dreary room was the bar presided over by a gentleman in overalls, shirt sleeves and very black hair plastered close to his low forehead.  At the rear was the lunch counter where two Chinamen were serving soup and stew and coffee to half a dozen men.  Thornton, with one of his quick, sharp glances which missed nothing in the room, went to the bar.

“Hello, Blackie,” he said quietly.

The bartender, who in a leisure moment had been bending in deep absorption over an illustrated pink sheet spread on the bar, looked up quickly.  For a short second a little gleam as of surprise shone in his shoe-button eyes.  Then he put out his hand, shoving the pink sheet aside.

“Hello, Buck,” he cried genially.  “Where’d you blow in from?”

“Poison Hole,” briefly.  He spun a silver dollar on the bar and ignored the hand.

Blackie reached for bottle and glass, and putting them before the cowboy bestowed upon him a shrewd, searching look.

“What’s the news out your way, Buck?”

“Nothing.”  He tossed off his whiskey, took up his change and went on to the lunch counter.  Several men looked up at him; one or two nodded.  It was evident that the new owner of the Poison Hole was something of a stranger here.  He called an order to the Chinaman at the stove, told him that he’d be back in ten minutes and was in a hurry and went out to his horse.  The bartender watched him go but said nothing.

Within less than ten minutes Thornton had left his sorrel at the stable, seeing personally the animal had its grain, and had come back to the saloon.  Blackie, idle with his gazette unnoticed in front of him, saw him come in this time.

“In town for a little high life, Buck?” he queried listlessly.

“No.  Business.”  He passed on down toward the lunch counter, and then swinging about suddenly came back.  “Bank business,” he added quietly.  “I just paid my second instalment of five thousand dollars cash!”

For a moment he stood staring very steadily into the bartender’s eyes, a great deal of significance in his look.  Blackie returned his stare steadily.

“You’re lucky, Buck,” he offered colourlessly.

“Meaning to get the Poison Hole?  Yes.  It’s the best cow range I ever saw.”

“Meanin’ to pack five thousan’ aroun’ in your tail pocket an’ get away with it with this stick-up gang workin’ the country.”

Thornton shrugged his shoulders.

“There isn’t any gang,” he said, speaking as a man who knew.  “It’s one man with a confederate here and there maybe to keep him here.  Every job that has been pulled off yet was a one man job.”