perpetual tiler over the door leading thereto. To Dad came Timberline Todd and Andy Dorson shortly after their encounter with Woolly Annie; each man still carried about his person the faintly reminiscent perfume of Minervy-brand can peaches. While Dad himself poured out their liquor—an honor the Capitol's proprietor reserved only for old trail mates—Timberline asked in a lowered voice if "they" were upstairs. In these days of crisis and the rumbling portents of a storm in the Big Country one of Timberline's tested loyalty could ask concerning the occupants of the sacred chamber without violation of precedent; Dad Strayhorn knew nothing less than emergency could prompt an invasion of the mysteries above. He gravely nodded.
"When you go up with the next round," Timberline earnestly whispered, "tell 'em" He bent his lips close to Strayhorn's ear to finish the sentence. The wind wrinkles in Dad's countenance did not flicker a betrayal of any interest over the intelligence Timberline communicated. The two cronies from the Hashknife outfit sipped their drink. Strayhorn disappeared through the mystic door. A few minutes later he emerged from the guarded
