Blackie polished his bar and shook his head.

“Jed Macintosh got cleaned out night before last,” he retorted.  “He’d made a clean-up right in here playin’ stud.  They got his wad before he’d gone to the end of the street.  That was more than a one man job.”

“Did Jed see more than one?” demanded Thornton sharply.

“No.  Jed didn’t see nothin’, I guess.  But we all seen the trail their horses made goin’ through Jed’s hayfield.  There was three horses any way.”

With no answer to this Thornton turned away, washed at the faucet near the back door, and settled his tall form upon one of the high stools at the counter.  He ate hungrily, with no remark to the men upon right and left of him.  But he heard their scraps of talk, noting that the one topic of conversation here in Dry Town was the work of the “stick-up party” manifesting itself in such episodes as the robbery and murder of Bill Varney, stage driver, the theft of Kemble’s cattle, the “cleanin’” of Jed Macintosh and, finally, the affair of last night at Poke Drury’s.  He listened with what seemed frank and only mild interest.

“It’s a funny thing to me,” one little dried-up old man with fierce moustaches and very gentle eyes was saying, “what we got a sheriff for.  This sort of gun play’s been runnin’ high for nigh on six months now, an’ Cole Dalton ain’t boarded anybody in his little ol’ jail any worse’n hoboes an’ drunks for so long it makes a feller wonder what a jail an’ a sheriff is for.”

“Give him time, Pop,” laughed a young rancher at his side.  “You know all that’s the matter with Cole Dalton is he’s got his election on the Republican ticket, an’ you ain’t never saw a man yet as wasn’t a Demmycrat as you’d admit was any ’count.  Give him time.  Cole knows what he’s doin’, an’ when he does git his rope on Mr. Badman he ain’t goin’ to need no jail.  Cole’ll give him a firs’ class funeral an’ save the county a board bill.”

Pop grunted, sniffed, and got to his feet to go to the door and watch the stage pull out.  At the rumble and creak of the great lumbering vehicle and the quick thud of the hoofs of the four running horses several men left the lunch counter and followed him.  Buck Thornton, finishing his own meal swiftly, went with the others.

Hap Smith took on fresh mail bags in front of the post-office, slammed back his brake, and with his long whip cracking like pistol shots over his leaders’ heads, drove on until he had passed the Last Chance.  And then he came to a halt again, his coach rocking and rolling on its great springs, in front of the bank.

“Hi, there,” he yelled mightily.  “Git a move on, will you?  I’m half a day late now.”

Mr. Templeton himself appeared on the instant at the door, a small strong box in his hands.  He tossed it up into the ready hands of the bull-necked, round-shouldered guard who sat at Hap Smith’s side with a rifle between his knees, the two passengers craned their necks with much interest, the guard bestowed the box under the seat, the driver loosened his reins, threw off his brake, and the stage rocked and rumbled down the street, spattering mud on either hand, racing away upon the last leg of its two hundred and fifty mile trip to the last town upon the far border of the great state.