Newcomers gallopped in every few moments. Most of them did not
stop to tether their mounts, but simply dropped the reins over the
heads of the horses and then went with rattling spurs and slouching
steps into the saloon. Every man was greeted by a shout, for one or
two of those within usually knew him, and when they raised a cry
the others joined in for the sake of good fellowship. As a rule he
responded by ordering everyone up to the bar.
One man, however, received no more greeting than the slamming of the
door behind him. He was a tall, handsome fellow with tawny hair and a
little smile of habit rather than mirth upon his lips. He had ridden
up on a strong bay horse, a full two hands taller than the average
cattle pony, and with legs and shoulders and straight back that
unmistakably told of a blooded pedigree. When he entered the saloon
he seemed nowise abashed by the silence, but greeted the turned heads
with a wave of the hand and a good-natured "Howdy, boys!" A volley of
greetings replied to him, for in the mountain-desert men cannot be
strangers after the first word.
"Line up and hit the red-eye," he went on, and leaning against the
bar as he spoke, his habitual smile broadened into one of actual
invitation.
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