The proprietor of the Nugget and Rope, a German named Baum, not being troubled with police rules, kept the door wide open for the purpose of inviting trade, a proceeding not to the liking of his patrons for obvious reasons. Probably not one man in ten was fortunate enough to have no one “looking for him,” and the lighted interior assured good hunting to any one in the dark street. He was continually opening the door, which every newcomer promptly and forcibly slammed shut. When he saw men walk across the room for the express purpose of slamming it he began to cherish the idea that there was a conspiracy on foot to anger him and thus force him to bring about his own death.

After the door had been slammed three times in one evening by one man, the last slam being so forcible as to shake two bottles from the shelf and to crack the door itself, he became positive that his suspicions were correct, and so was very careful to smile and take it as a joke. Finally, wearied by his vain efforts to keep it open and fearing for the door, he hit upon a scheme, the brilliancy of which inflated his chest and gave him the appearance of a prize-winning bantam. When his patrons strolled in that night there was no door to slam, as it lay behind the bar.

When Buck and Red entered, closely followed by Hopalong, they elbowed their way to the rear of the room, where they could see before being seen. As yet they had said nothing to Hopalong about Pie’s warning and were debating in their minds whether they should do so or not, when Hopalong interrupted their thoughts by laughing. They looked up and he nodded toward the front, where they saw that anxious eyes from all parts of the room were focused on the open door. Then they noticed that it had been removed.

The air of semi-hostile, semi-anxious inquiry of the patrons and the smile of satisfaction covering the face of Baum appealed to them as the most ludicrous sight their eyes had seen for months, and they leaned back and roared with laughter, thus calling forth sundry looks of disapproval from the innocent causes of their merriment. But they were too well known in Albuquerque to allow the disapproval to approach a serious end, and finally, as the humorous side of the situation dawned on the crowd, they joined in the laugh and all went merrily.

At the psychologic moment some one shouted for a dance and the suggestion met with uproarious approval. At that moment Harris, the sheriff, came in and volunteered to supply the necessary music if the crowd would pay the fine against a straying fiddler he had corraled the day before. A hat was quickly passed and a sum was realized which would pay several fines to come and Harris departed for the music.

A chair was placed on the bar for the musician and, to the tune of “Old Dan Tucker” and an assortment of similar airs, the board floor shook and trembled. It was a comical sight and Hopalong, the only wallflower besides Baum and the sheriff, laughed until he became weak. Cow punchers play as they work, hard and earnestly, and there was plenty of action. Sombreros flapped like huge wings and the baggy chaps looked like small, distorted balloons.

The Virginia reel was a marvel of supple, exaggerated grace and the quadrille looked like a free-for-all for unbroken colts. The honor of prompter was conferred upon the sheriff, and he gravely called the changes as they were usually called in that section of the country:

“Oh, th’ ladies trail in
An’ th’ gents trail out,
An’ all stampede down th’ middle.
If yu ain’t got th’ tin
Yu can dance an’ shout,
But yu must keep up with th’ fiddle.”

As the dance waxed faster and the dancers grew hotter Hopalong, feeling lonesome because he wouldn’t face ridicule, even if it was not expressed, went over and stood by the sheriff. He and Harris were good friends, for he had received the wound that crippled him in saving the sheriff from assassination. Harris killed the man who had fired that shot, and from this episode on the burning desert grew a friendship that was as strong as their own natures.

Harris was very well liked by the majority and feared by the rest, for he was a square man and the best sheriff the county had ever known. Quiet and unassuming, small of stature and with a kind word for every one, he was a universal favorite among the better class of citizens. Quick as a flash and unerring in his shooting, he was a nightmare to the “bad men.” No profane word had ever been known to leave his lips, and he was the possessor of a widespread reputation for generosity. His face was naturally frank and open; but when his eyes narrowed with determination it became blank and cold. When he saw his young friend sidle over to him he smiled and nodded a hearty welcome.

“They’s shore cuttin’ her loose,” remarked Hopalong.

“First two pairs forward an’ back! they shore is,” responded the prompter.

“Who’s th’ gent playin’ lady to Buck?” Queried Hopalong.

“Forward again an’ ladies change! Billy Jordan.”

Hopalong watched the couple until they swung around and then he laughed silently. “Buck’s got too many feet,” he seriously remarked to his friend.

“Swing th’ girl yu loves th’ best! he ain’t lonesome, look at that

Two shots rang out in quick succession and Harris stumbled, wheeled and pitched forward on his face as Hopalong’s sombrero spun across his body. For a second there was an intense silence, heavy, strained and sickening. Then a roar broke forth and the crowd of frenzied merry-makers, headed by Hopalong, poured out into the street and spread out to search the town. As daylight dawned the searchers began to straggle back with the same report of failure. Buck and Red met on the street near the door and each looked questioningly at the other. Each shook his head and looked around, their fingers toying absentmindedly at their belts. Finally Buck cleared his throat and remarked casually,

“Mebby he’s following ’em.”

Red nodded and they went over toward their horses. As they were hesitating which route to take, Billy Jordan came up.

“Mebby yu’d like to see yore pardner he’s out by Buzzard’s Spring. We’ll take care of him,” jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the saloon where Harris’s body lay. “And we’ll all git th’ others later. They cain’t git away for long.”

Buck and Red nodded and headed for Buzzard’s Spring. As they neared the water hole they saw Hopalong sitting on a rock, his head resting in one hand while the other hung loosely from his knee. He did not notice them when they arrived, and with a ready tact they sat quietly on their horses and looked in every direction except toward him. The sun became a ball of molten fire and the sand flies annoyed them incessantly, but still they sat and waited, silent and apologetic.

Hopalong finally arose, reached for his sombrero, and, finding it gone, swore long and earnestly at the scene its loss brought before him. He walked over to his horse and, leaping into the saddle, turned and faced his friends. “Yu old sons-of-guns,” he said. They looked sheepish and nodded negatively in answer to the look of inquiry in his eyes. “They ain’t got ’em yet,” remarked Red slowly. Hopalong straightened up, his eyes narrowed and his face became hard and resolute as he led the way back toward the town.

Buck rode up beside him and, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve, began to speak to Red. “We might look up th’ Joneses, Red. They had been dodgin’ th’ sheriff purty lively lately, an’ they was huntin’ Hopalong. Ever since we had to kill their brother in Buckskin they has been yappin’ as how they was goin’ to wipe us out. Hopalong an’ Harris was standin’ clost together an’ they tried for both. They shot twice, one for Harris an’ one for Hopalong, an’ what more do yu want?”

“It shore looks thataway, Buck,” replied Red, biting into a huge plug of tobacco which he produced from his chaps. “Anyhow, they wouldn’t be no loss if they didn’t. Member what Pie said?”

Hopalong looked straight ahead, and when he spoke the words sounded as though he had bitten them off: “Yore right, Buck, but I gits first try at Thirsty. He’s my meat an’ I’ll plug th’ fellow what says he ain’t. Damn him!”

The others replied by applying their spurs, and in a short time they dismounted before the Nugget and Rope. Thirsty wouldn’t have a chance to not care how he dealt the cards.

Buck and Red moved quickly through the crowd, speaking fast and earnestly. When they returned to where they had left their friend they saw him half a block away and they followed slowly, one on either side of the street. There would be no bullets in his back if they knew what they were about, and they usually did.

As Hopalong neared the corner, Thirsty and his two brothers turned it and saw him. Thirsty said something in a low voice, and the other two walked across the street and disappeared behind the store. When assured that they were secure, Thirsty walked up to a huge boulder on the side of the street farthest from the store and turned and faced his enemy, who approached rapidly until about five paces away, when he slowed up and finally stopped.

For a number of seconds they sized each other up, Hopalong quiet and deliberate with a deadly hatred; Thirsty pale and furtive with a sensation hitherto unknown to him. It was Right meeting Wrong, and Wrong lost confidence. Often had Thirsty Jones looked death in the face and laughed, but there was something in Hopalong’s eyes that made his flesh creep.

He glanced quickly past his foe and took in the scene with one flash of his eyes. There was the crowd, eager, expectant, scowling. There were Buck and Red, each lounging against a boulder, Buck on his right, Red on his left. Before him stood the only man he had ever feared. Hopalong shifted his feet and Thirsty, coming to himself with a start, smiled. His nerve had been shaken, but he was master of himself once more.

“Well!” he snarled, scowling.

Hopalong made no response, but stared him in the eyes.

Thirsty expected action, and the deadly quiet of his enemy oppressed him. He stared in turn, but the insistent searching of his opponent’s eyes scorched him and he shifted his gaze to Hopalong’s neck.

“Well!” he repeated uneasily.

“Did yu have a nice time at th’ dance last night?” Asked Hopalong, still searching the face before him.

“Was there a dance? I was over in Alameda,” replied Thirsty shortly.

“Ya-as, there was a dance, an’ yu can shoot purty durn far if yu was in Alameda,” responded Hopalong, his voice low and monotonous.

Thirsty shifted his feet and glanced around. Buck and Red were still lounging against their bowlders and apparently were not paying any attention to the proceedings. His fickle nerve came back again, for he knew he would receive fair play. So he faced Hopalong once more and regarded him with a cynical smile.

“Yu seems to worry a whole lot about me. Is it because yu has a tender feelin’, or because it’s none of yore blame business?” He asked aggressively.

Hopalong paled with sudden anger, but controlled himself.

“It’s because yu murdered Harris,” he replied.

“Shoo! An’ how does yu figger it out?” Asked Thirsty, jauntily.

“He was huntin’ yu hard an’ yu thought yu’d stop it, so yu came in to lay for him. When yu saw me an’ him together yu saw di’ chance to wipe out another score. That’s how I figger it out,” replied Hopalong quietly.

“Yore a reg’lar ’tective, ain’t yu?” Thirsty asked ironically.

“I’ve got common sense,” responded Hopalong.

“Yu has? Yu better tell th’ rest that, too,” replied Thirsty.

“I know yu shot Harris, an’ yu can’t get out of it by makin’ funny remarks. Anyhow, yu won’t be much loss, an’ th’ stage company’ll feel better, too.”

“Shoo! An’ suppose I did shoot him, I done a good job, didn’t I?”

“Yu did the worst job yu could do, yu highway robber,” softly said Hopalong, at the same time moving nearer. “Harris knew yu stopped th’ stage last month, an’ that’s why yu’ve been dodgin’ him.”

“Yore a liar!” shouted Thirsty, reaching for his gun.

The movement was fatal, for before he could draw, the Colt in Hopalong’s holster leaped out and flashed from its owner’s hip and Thirsty fell sideways, face down in the dust of the street.

Hopalong started toward the fallen man, but as he did so a shot rang out from behind the store and he pitched forward, stumbled and rolled behind the bowlder. As he stumbled his left hand streaked to his hip, and when he fell he had a gun in each hand.

As he disappeared from sight Goodeye and Bill Jones stepped from behind the store and started to run away. Not able to resist the temptation to look again, they stopped and turned and Bill laughed.

“Easy as sin,” he said.

“Run, yu fool Red an’ Buck’ll be here. Want to git plugged?” shouted Goodeye angrily.

They turned and started for a group of ponies twenty yards away, and as they leaped into the saddles two shots were fired from the street. As the reports died away Buck and Red turned the corner of the store, Colts in hand, and, checking their rush as they saw the saddles emptied, they turned toward the street and saw Hopalong, with blood oozing from an abrasion on his cheek, sitting up cross-legged, with each hand holding a gun, from which came thin wisps of smoke.

“Th’ son-of-a-gun!” cried Buck, proud and delighted.

“Th’ son-of-a-gun!” echoed Red, grinning.