“Are you going to organize a force and go after them?” asked Bert eagerly.

Mr. Melton’s eyes twinkled.

“Hit it right the first time,” he said.  “I suppose I ain’t far out in guessing that you’d like to go along.”

“You bet I would,” replied Bert emphatically.

“Well, we’ll see about it,” answered his host.  “But you’d better get along now if you expect to be home before dark.  You’ve got a long way to go, and you’ll have to give your horse a good breathing space before you start back.  I promise that we won’t start out for the rustlers without you, if you’re really bent on going.”

Bert thanked him, touched his horse with the spur, and, with a last wave of his hand was off on his journey.

In due time he reached the town, hitched his horse to the rail in front of the general store, and went in to make his purchases.  This consumed some time, and when he was through, his vigorous appetite reminded him that it was time for dinner.  There was only one place in that primitive town where it could be obtained and that was in a little annex to the leading saloon.  Drinks of course were the things chiefly dealt in, but a meal also could be obtained at any time desired, and Bert went in, seated himself at a table in the corner, and ordered steak and eggs and coffee.

While this was being prepared he had ample time to look about him.  The building was a mere shack of the roughest kind.  The bar took up one whole side of the room, and the bartender was kept busy most of the time in serving drinks to the crowd lined up before it.  At a number of small tables, miners, prospectors and cowboys were seated, with piles of poker chips heaped up before them.  Some of the men were already drunk and inclined to be ugly, but most of them at that early hour were sober enough, though drinking freely.  All without exception were armed, and the weapons peeped from their holsters within easy reach.  Among these reckless and, in many cases lawless, dwellers on the borderland of civilization, the difference of a fraction of a second in offense or defense might mean the difference between life and death.

Still, matters were proceeding peaceably enough at the moment, and there was no indication of impending trouble.  Bert’s food was brought to him after a considerable wait, and he “waded” into it with characteristic vigor.  The cooking was none too good nor was the food itself of superlative quality.  But “hunger is the best sauce,” and he was not inclined to be critical.  He had, moreover, been too much of a traveler not to be able to adapt himself philosophically to any condition in which he found himself.

He was about to pick up his hat and go to the bar to pay for his meal, when he was struck by the tones of a familiar voice.  He looked about quickly and saw Pedro, the cowboy employed at the ranch.  He was surprised at this, as he was sure Pedro was supposed at the time to be on herd duty.  Had Mr. Melton intended that he should be in town, he would have suggested to Bert that the half-breed might do his commissions for him and save him the long journey.