slug pronto. Just write that down in your little book."
Two Moons was just winding up the bacon-and-flap jacks hour. Storekeepers were sweeping out. The saloons were at the midway point between the lingering all-night trade and the morning thirst cutting. Few people were on the street. Few, that is, when the cavalcade crossed the bridge, but
A cow-puncher, taking his morning wash at a horse trough, looked up through streaming strands of hair, saw a woman of dazzling beauty with a rifle held carelessly in the crook of her arm riding ahead of a bound man, saw Zang Whistler of Teapot Spout coolly riding behind with his left hand ready for business. The cow-puncher emitted a surprised whoop and ducked backward into a saloon to possess himself of his gun. The clerk taking down the shutters from the windows of the Boston Cash Store stood open-mouthed at the spectacle, then dashed into a neighboring store to spread the word that "something's doing—big!" Men ran hatless out of the hotel, from the saloons, out of the depths of livery stables. A rider who happened to be turning a corner at a sharp swerve almost bumped into Uncle Alf,
