The marshal did not like the Oasis; indeed, he went further and cordially hated it.  Harlan’s saloon was a thorn in his side and he was only waiting for a good excuse to wipe it off the local map.  He was the Law, and behind him were the range riders, who would be only too glad to have the nest of rustlers wiped out and its gang of ne’er-do-wells scattered to the four winds.  Indeed, he had been given to understand in a most polite and diplomatic way that if this were not done lawfully they would try to do it themselves, and they had great faith in their ability to handle the situation in a thorough and workmanlike manner.  This would not do in a law-abiding community, as he called the town, and so he had replied that the work was his, and that it would be performed as soon as he believed himself justified to act.  Harlan and his friends were fully conversant with the feeling against them and had become a little more cautious, alertly watching out for trouble.

On the evening of the day which saw Pete Wilson’s discomfiture most of the habitues had assembled in the Oasis where, besides the card-players already mentioned, eight men lounged against the bar.  There was some laughter, much subdued talking, and a little whispering.  More whispering went on under that roof than in all the other places in town put together; for here rustling was planned, wayfaring strangers were “trimmed” in “frame-ups” at cards, and a hunted man was certain to find assistance.  Harlan had once boasted that no fugitive had ever been taken from his saloon, and he was behind the bar and standing on the trap door which led to the six-by-six cellar when he made the assertion.  It was true, for only those in his confidence knew of the place of refuge under the floor; it had been dug at night and the dirt carefully disposed of.

It had not been dark very long before talking ceased and card-playing was suspended while all looked up as the front door crashed open and two punchers entered, looking the crowd over with critical care.

“Stay here, Johnny,” Hopalong told his youthful companion, and then walked forward, scrutinizing each scowling face in turn, while Johnny stood with his back to the door, keenly alert, his right hand resting lightly on his belt not far from the holster.

Harlan’s thick neck grew crimson and his eyes hard.  “Looking fer something?” he asked with bitter sarcasm, his hands under the bar.  Johnny grinned hopefully and a sudden tenseness took possession of him as he watched for the first hostile move.

“Yes,” Hopalong replied coolly, appraising Harlan’s attitude and look in one swift glance, “but it ain’t here, now.  Johnny, get out,” he ordered, backing after his companion, and safely outside, the two walked towards Jackson’s store, Johnny complaining about the little time spent in the Oasis.

As they entered the store they saw Edwards, whose eye asked a question.

“No; he ain’t in there yet,” Hopalong replied.