Tex Ewalt, cow-puncher, prospector, sometimes a rustler, but always a dude, rode from El Paso in deep disgust at his steady losses at faro and monte. The pecuniary side of these caused him no worry, for he was flush. This pleasing opulence was due to his business ability, for he had recently sold a claim for several thousand dollars. The first operation was simple, being known in Western phraseology as “jumping”; and the second, somewhat more complicated, was known as “salting.”

The first of the money spent went for a complete new outfit, and he had parted with just three hundred and seventy dollars to feed his vanity. He desired something contrasty and he procured it. His sombrero, of gray felt a quarter of an inch thick, flaunted a band of black leather, on which was conspicuously displayed a solid silver buckle. His neck was protected by a crimson kerchief of the finest, heaviest silk. His shirt, in pattern the same as those commonly worn in the cow country, was of buckskin, soft as a baby’s cheek and impervious to water, and the Angora goatskin chaps, with the long silken hair worn outside, were as white as snow. Around his waist ran loosely a broad, black leather belt supporting a heavy black holster, in which lay its walnut-handled burden, a .44 caliber six-shooter; and thirty center-fire cartridges peeked from their loops, fifteen on a side. His boots, the soles thin and narrow and the heels high, were black and of the finest leather. Huge spurs, having two-inch rowels, were held in place by buckskin straps, on which, also, were silver buckles. Protecting his hands were heavy buckskin gloves, also waterproof, having wide, black gauntlets.

Each dainty hock of his dainty eight-hundred-pound buckskin pony was black, and a black star graced its forehead. Well groomed, with flowing mane and tail, and with the brand on its flank being almost imperceptible, the animal was far different in appearance from most of the cow-ponies. Vicious and high-spirited, it cavorted just enough to show its lines to the best advantage.

The saddle, a famous Cheyenne and forty pounds in weight, was black, richly embossed, and decorated with bits of beaten silver which flashed back the sunlight. At the pommel hung a thirty-foot coil of braided horsehair rope, and at the rear was a Sharp’s .50-caliber, breech-loading rifle, its owner having small use for any other make. The color of the bridle was the same as the saddle and it supported a heavy U bit which was capable of a leverage sufficient to break the animal’s jaw.

Tex was proud of his outfit, but his face wore a frown not there only on acount of his losses, but also by reason of his mission, for under all his finery beat a heart as black as any in the cow country. For months he had smothered hot hatred and he was now on his way to ease himself of it.

He and Slim Travennes had once exchanged shots with Hopalong in Santa Fe, and the month which he had spent in bed was not pleasing, and from that encounter had sprung the hatred. That he had been in the wrong made no difference with him. Some months later he had learned of the death of Slim, and it was due to the same man. That Slim had again been in the wrong also made no difference, for he realized the fact and nothing else.

Lately he had been told of the death of Slippery Trendley and Deacon Rankin, and he accepted their passing as a personal affront. That they had been caught red-handed in cattle stealing of huge proportions and received only what was customary under the conditions formed no excuse in his mind for their passing. He was now on his way to attend the carnival at Muddy Wells, knowing that his enemy would be sure to be there.

While passing through Las Cruces he met Porous Johnson and Silent Somes, who were thirsty and who proclaimed that fact, whereupon he relieved them of their torment and, looking forward to more treatment of a similar nature, they gladly accompanied him without asking why or where.

As they left the town in their rear Tex turned in his saddle and surveyed them with a cynical smile.

“Have yu heard anything of Trendley?” He asked.

They shook their heads.

“Him an’ th’ Deacon was killed over in th’ Panhandle,” he said.

“What!” chorused the pair.

“Jack Dorman, Shorty Danvers, Charley Teale, Stiffhat Bailey, Billy Jackson, Terry Nolan an’ Sailor Carson was lynched.”

“What!” they shouted.

“Fish O’Brien, Pinochle Schmidt, Tom Wilkins, Apache Gordon, Charley of th’ Bar Y, Penobscot Hughes an’ about twenty others died fightin’.”

Porous looked his astonishment: “Cavalry?”

“An’ I’m going after th’ dogs who did it,” he continued, ignoring the question. “Are yu with me? Yu used to pal with some of them, didn’t yu?”

“We did, an’ we’re shore with yu!” cried Porous.

“Yore right,” endorsed Silent. “But who done it?”

“That gang what’s punchin’ for th’ Bar-20-Hopalong Cassidy is th’ one I’m pining for. Yu fellers can take care of Peters an’ Connors.”

The two stiffened and exchanged glances of uncertainty and apprehension. The outfit of the Bar-20 was too well known to cause exuberant joy to spring from the idea of war with it, and well in the center of all the tales concerning it were the persons Tex had named. To deliberately set forth with the avowed intention of planting these was not at all calculated to induce sweet dreams.

Tex sneered his contempt.

“Yore shore uneasy: yu ain’t a-scared, are yu?” He drawled. Porous relaxed and made a show of subduing his horse: “I reckon I ain’t scared plumb to death. Yu can deal me a hand,” he asserted.

“I’ll draw cards too,” hastily announced Silent, buttoning his vest. “Tell us about that jamboree over in th’ Panhandle.”

Tex repeated the story as he had heard it from a bibulous member of the Barred Horseshoe, and then added a little of torture as a sauce to whet their appetites for revenge.

“How did Trendley cash in?” Asked Porous.

“Nobody knows except that bum from th’ Tin-Cup. I’ll get him later. I’d a got Cassidy up in Santa Fe, too, if it wasn’t for th’ sun in my eyes. Me an’ Slim loosened up on him in th’ Plaza, but we couldn’t see nothing with him a-standin’ against th’ sun.”

“Where’s Slim now?” Asked Porous. “I ain’t seen him for some time.”

“Slim’s with Trendley,” replied Tex. “Cassidy handed him over to St. Pete at Cactus Springs. Him an’ Connors sicked their outfit on him an’ his vigilantes, bein helped some by th’ O-Bar-O. They wiped th’ town plumb off th’ earth, an’ now I’m going to do some wipin’ of my own account. I’ll prune that gang of some of its blossoms afore long. It’s cost me seventeen friends so far, an’ I’m going to stop th’ leak, or make another.”

They entered Muddy Wells at sunrise on the day of the carnival and, eating a hearty breakfast, sallied forth to do their share toward making the festivities a success.

The first step considered necessary for the acquirement of case and polish was begun at the nearest bar, and Tex, being the host, was so liberal that his friends had reached a most auspicious state when they followed him to Tom Lee’s.

Tex was too wise to lose his head through drink and had taken only enough to make him careless of consequences. Porous was determined to sing “Annie Laurie,” although he hung on the last word of the first line until out of breath and then began anew. Silent, not wishing to be outdone, bawled at the top of his lungs a medley of music-hall words to the air of a hymn.

Tex, walking as awkwardly as any cow-puncher, approached Tom Lee’s, his two friends trailing erratically, arm in arm, in his rear. Swinging his arm he struck the door a resounding blow and entered, hand on gun, as it crashed back. Porous and Silent stood in the doorway and quarreled as to what each should drink and, compromising, lurched in and seated themselves on a table and resumed their vocal perpetrations.

Tex swaggered over to the bar and tossed a quarter upon it: “Corn juice,” he laconically exclaimed. Tossing off the liquor and glancing at his howling friends, he shrugged his shoulders and strode out by the rear door, slamming it after him. Porous and Silent, recounting friends who had “cashed in” fell to weeping and they were thus occupied when Hopalong and Buck entered, closely followed by the rest of the outfit.

Buck walked to the bar and was followed by Hopalong, who declined his foreman’s offer to treat. Tom Lee set a bottle at Buck’s elbow and placed his hands against the bar.

“Friend of yourn just hit the back trail,” he remarked to Hopalong. “He was primed some for trouble, too,” he added.

“Yaas?” Drawled Hopalong with little interest.

The proprietor restacked the few glasses and wiped off the bar. “Them’s his pardners,” he said, indicating the pair on the table.

Hopalong turned his head and gravely scrutinized them. Porous was bemoaning the death of Slim Travennes and Hopalong frowned.

“Don’t reckon he’s no relation of mine,” he grunted.

“Well, he ain’t yore sister,” replied Tom Lee, grinning.

“What’s his brand?” Asked the puncher.

“I reckon he’s a maverick, ’though yu put yore brand on him up to Santa Fe a couple of years back. Since he’s throwed back on yore range I reckon he’s yourn if yu wants him.”

“I reckon Tex is some sore,” remarked Hopalong, rolling a cigarette.

“I reckon he is,” replied the proprietor, tossing Buck’s quarter in the cash box. “But, say, you should oughter see his rig.”

“Yaas?”

“He’s shore a cow-punch dude my, but he’s some sumptious an’ highfalutin’. An’ bad? Why, he reckons th’ Lord never brewed a more high-toned brand of cussedness than his’n. He shore reckons he’s the baddest man that ever simmered.”

“How’d he look as th’ leadin’ man in a necktie festival?” Blazed Johnny from across the room, feeling called upon to help the conversation.

“He’d be a howlin’ success, son,” replied Skinny Thompson, “judgin’ by his friends what we elevated over in th’ Panhandle.”

Lanky Smith leaned forward with his elbow on the table, resting his chin in the palm of his hand: “Is Ewalt still a-layin’ for yu, Hopalong?” He asked.

Hopalong turned wearily and tossed his half-consumed cigarette into the box of sand which did duty as a cuspidore: “I reckon so; an’ he shore can hatch whenever he gets good an ready, too.”

“He’s probably a-broodin’ over past grievances,” offered Johnny, as he suddenly pushed Lanky’s elbow from the table, nearly causing a catastrophe.

“Yu’ll be broodin’ over present grievances if yu don’t look out, yu everlastin’ nuisance yu,” growled Lanky, planting his elbow in its former position with an emphasis which conveyed a warning.

“These bantams ruflle my feathers,” remarked Red. “They go around braggin’ about th’ egg they’re goin’ to lay an’ do enough cacklin’ to furnish music for a dozen. Then when th’ affair comes off yu’ll generally find they’s been settin’ on a door-knob.”

“Did yu ever see a hen leave th’ walks of peace an’ bugs an’ rustle hell-bent across th’ trail plumb in front of a cayuse?” Asked Buck. “They’ll leave off rustlin’ grub an’ become candidates for th’ graveyard just for cussedness. Well, a whole lot of men are th’ same way. How many times have I seen them swagger into a gin shop an’ try to run things sudden an’ hard, an’ that with half a dozen better men in th’ same room? There’s shore a-plenty of trouble a-comin’ to every man without rustlin’ around for more.

“‘Member that time yu an’ Frenchy tried to run th’ little town of Frozen Nose, up in Montana?” Asked Johnny, winking at the rest.

“An’ we did run it, for a while,” responded Buck. “But that only goes to show that most young men are chumps we were just about yore age then.”

Red laughed at the youngster’s discomfiture: “That little squib of yourn shore touched her off I reckon we irrigates on yu this time, don’t we?”

“Th’ more th’ Kid talks, th’ more money he needs,” remarked Lanky, placing his glass on the bar. “He had to blow me an’ Skinny twice last night.”

“I got two more after yu left,” added Skinny “He shore oughter practice keeping still.”

At one o’clock sharp Hopalong walked up to the clerk of the hotel and grinned. The clerk looked up:

“Hullo, Cassidy?” He exclaimed, genially. “What was all that fuss about this mornin’ when I was away? I haven’t seen you for a long time, have I? How are you?”

“That fuss was a fool joke of Buck’s, an’ I wish they had been throwed out,” Hopalong replied. “What I want to know is if Miss Deane is in her room. Yu see, I have a date with her.”

The clerk grinned:

“So she’s roped you, too, has she?”

“What do yu mean?” Asked Hopalong in surprise. “Well, well,” laughed the clerk. “You punchers are easy. Any third-rate actress that looks good to eat can rope you fellows, all right. Now look here, Laura, you keep shy of her corral, or you’ll be broke so quick you won’t believe you ever had a cent: that’s straight. This is the third year that she’s been here and I know what I’m talking about. How did you come to meet her?”

Hopalong explained the meeting and his friend laughed again:

“Why, she knows this country like a book. She can’t get lost anywhere around here. But she’s blame clever at catching punchers.”

“Well, I reckon I’d better take her, go broke or not,” replied Hopalong. “Is she in her room?”

“She is, but she is not alone,” responded the clerk. “There is a dude puncher up there with her and she left word here that she was indisposed, which means that you are outlawed.”

“Who is he?” Asked Hopalong, having his suspicions. “That friend of yours: Ewalt. He sported a wad this morning when she passed him, and she let him make her acquaintance. He’s another easy mark. He’ll be busted wide open to-night.”

“I reckon I’ll see Tex,” suggested Hopalong, starting for the stairs.

“Come back, you chump!” cried the clerk. “I don’t want any shooting here. What do you care about it? Let her have him, for it’s an easy way out of it for you. Let him think he’s cut you out, for he’ll spend all the more freely. Get your crowd and enlighten them it’ll be better than a circus. This may sound like a steer, but it’s straight.”

Hopalong thought for a minute and then leaned on the cigar case:

“I reckon I’ll take about a dozen of yore very best cigars, Charley. Got any real high-toned brands?”

“Cortez panatella two for a simoleon,” Chancy replied. “But, seein’ that it’s you, I’ll throw off a dollar on a dozen. They’re a fool notion of the old man, for we can’t sell one in a month.”

Hopalong dug up a handful and threw one on the counter, lighting another: “Yu light a Cortez panatella with me,” he said, pocketing the remainder. “That’s five simoleons she didn’t get. So long.”

He journeyed to Tom Lee’s and found his outfit making merry. Passing around his cigars he leaned against the bar and delighted in the first really good smoke he had since he came home from Kansas City.

Johnny Nelson blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling and paused with a pleased expression on his face:

“This is a lalapoloosa of a cigar,” he cried. “Where’d yu get it, an’ how many’s left?”

“I got it from Charley, an’ there’s more than yu can buy at fifty a shot.”

“Well, I’ll just take a few for luck,” Johnny responded, running out into the street. Returning in five minutes with both hands full of cigars he passed them around and grinned: “They’re birds, all right!”

Hopalong smiled, turned to Buck and related his conversation with Chancy. “What do yu think of that?” He asked as he finished.

“I think Charley oughter be yore guardian,” replied the foreman.

“He was,” replied Hopalong.

“If we sees Tex we’ll all grin hard,” laughed Red, making for the door. “Come on to th’ contests Lanky’s gone already.”

Muddy Wells streamed to the carnival grounds and relieved itself of its enthusiasm and money at the booths on the way. Cow-punchers rubbed elbows with Indians and Mexicans, and the few tourists that were present were delighted with the picturesque scene. The town was full of fakirs and before one of them stood a group of cow-punchers, apparently drinking in the words of a barker.

“Right this way, gents, and see the woman who don’t eat. Lived for two years without food, gents. Right this way, gents. Only a quarter of a dollar. Get your tickets, gents, and see

Red pushed forward:

“What did yu say, pard?” He asked. “I’m a little off in my near ear. What’s that about eatin’ a woman for two years?”

“The greatest wonder of the age, gents. The wom

“Any discount for th’ gang?” Asked Buck, gawking.

“Why don’t yu quit smokin’ an’ buy th’ lady a meal?” Asked Johnny from the center of the group.

“Th’ cane yu ring th’ cane yu get!” came from the other side of the street and Hopalong purchased rings for the outfit. Twenty-four rings got one cane, and it was divided between them as they wended their way toward the grounds.

“That makes six wheels she didn’t get,” murmured Hopalong. As they passed the snake charmer’s booth they saw Tex and his companion ahead of them in the crowd, and they grinned broadly. “I like th’ front row in th’ balcony,” remarked Johnny, who had been to Kansas City. “Don’t cry in th’ second act it ain’t real,” laughed Red. “We’ll hang John Brown on a sour appletree in th’ Panhandle,” sang Skinny as they passed them.

Arriving at the grounds they hunted up the registration committee and entered in the contests. As Hopalong signed for the revolver competition he was rudely pushed aside and Tex wrote his name under that of his enemy. Hopalong was about to show quick resentment for the insult, but thought of what Charley had said, and he grinned sympathetically. The seats were filling rapidly, and the outfit went along the ground looking for friends. A bugle sounded and a hush swept over the crowd as the announcement was made for the first event.

“Broncho-busting-Red Devil, never ridden: Frenchy McAllister, Tin-Cup, Montana; Meteor, killed his man: Skinny Thompson, Bar-20, Texas; Vixen, never ridden: Lefty Allen, O-Bar-O, Texas.”

All eyes were focused on the plain where the horse was being led out for the first trial. After the usual preliminaries had been gone through Frenchy walked over to it, vaulted in the saddle and the bandage was torn from the animal’s eyes. For ten minutes the onlookers were held spellbound by the fight before them, and then the horse kicked and galloped away and Frenchy was picked up and carried from the field.

“Too bad!” cried Buck, running from the outfit.

“Did yu see it?” asked Johnny excitedly, “Th’ cinch busted.” Another horse was led out and Skinny Thompson vaulted to the saddle, and after a fight of half an hour rode the animal from the enclosure to the clamorous shouts of his friends. Lefty Allen also rode his mount from the same gate, but took ten minutes more in which to do it.

The announcer conferred with the timekeepers and then stepped forward: “First, Skinny Thompson, Bar-20, thirty minutes and ten seconds; second, Lefty Allen, O-Bar-O, forty minutes and seven seconds.”

Skinny returned to his friends shamefacedly and did not look as if he had just won a championship. They made way for him, and Johnny, who could not restrain his enthusiasm pounded him on the back and cried: “Yu old son-of-a-gun!”

The announcer again came forward and gave out the competitors for the next contest, steer-roping and tying. Lanky Smith arose and, coiling his rope carefully, disappeared into the crowd. The fun was not so great in this, but when he returned to his outfit with the phenomenal time of six minutes and eight seconds for his string of ten steers, with twenty-two seconds for one of them, they gave him vociferous greeting. Three of his steers had gotten up after he had leaped from his saddle to tie them, but his horse had taken care of that. His nearest rival was one minute over him and Lanky retained the championship.

Red Connors shot with such accuracy in the rifle contest as to run his points twenty per cent higher than Waffles, of the O-Bar-O, and won the new rifle.

The main interest centered in the revolver contest, for it was known that the present champion was to defend his title against an enemy and fears were expressed in the crowd that there would be an “accident.” Buck Peters and Red stood just behind the firing line with their hands on hips, and Tex, seeing the precautions, smiled grimly as he advanced to the line.

Six bottles, with their necks an inch above a board, stood twenty paces from him, and he broke them all in as many shots, taking twelve seconds in which to do it. Hopalong followed him and tied the score. Three tin balls rolling erratically in a blanket supported by two men were sent flying into the air in four shots, Tex taking six seconds. His competitor sent them from the blanket in three shots and in the same time. In slow shooting from sights Tex passed his rival in points and stood to win. There was but one more event to be contested and in it Hopalong found his joy.

Shooting from the hip when the draw is timed is not the sport of even good shots, and when Tex made sixty points out of a possible hundred, he felt that he had shot well. When Hopalong went to the line his friends knew that they would now see shooting such as would be almost unbelievable, that the best draw-and-shoot marksman in their State was the man who limped slightly as he advanced and who chewed reflectively on his fifty-cent cigar. He wore two guns and he stepped with confidence before the marshal of the town, who was also judge of the contest.

The iron ball which lay on the ground was small enough for the use of a rifle and could hardly be seen from the rear seats of the amphitheater. There was a word spoken by the timekeeper, and a gloved hand flashed down and up, and the ball danced and spun and leaped and rolled as shot after shot followed it with a precision and speed which brought the audience to a heavy silence. Taking the gun which Buck tossed to him and throwing it into the empty holster, he awaited the signal, and then smoke poured from his hips and the ball jumped continuously. Both guns emptied in the two-hand shooting, he wheeled and jerked loose the guns which the marshal wore, spinning around without a pause, the target hardly ceasing in its rolling. Under his arms he shot, backward and between his legs; leaping from side to side, ducking and dodging, following the ball wherever it went. Reloading the weapons quickly, he stepped forward and followed the ball until once more his guns were empty. Then he turned and walked back to the side of the marshal, smiling a little. His friends, and there were many in the crowd, torn from their affected nonchalance by shooting the like of which they had not attributed even to him, roared and shouted and danced in a frenzy of delight.

Red also threw his guns to Hopalong, who caught them in the air and turning, faced Tex, who stood white of face and completely lost in the forgetfulness of admiration and amazement. The guns jerked again and a button flew from the buckskin shirt of his enemy; another tore a flower from his breast and another drove it into the ground at his feet as others stirred his hair and cut the buckle off his pretty sombrero. Tex, dazed, but wise enough to stand quiet, felt his belt tear loose and drop to his feet, felt a spur rip from its strap and saw his cigarette leap from his lips. Throwing the guns to Red, Hopalong laughed and abruptly turned and was lost in the crowd.

For several seconds there was silence, but when the dazed minds realized what their eyes had seen, there arose a roar which shook the houses in the town. Roar after roar thundered forth and was sent crashing back again by the distant walls, sweeping down on the discomfited dude and causing him to slink into the crowd to find a place less conspicuous. He was white yet and keen fear gripped his heart as he realized that he had come to the carnival with the expressed purpose of killing his enemy in fair combat. The whole town knew it, for he had taken pains to spread the news.

The woman he had been with knew it from words which she had overheard while on her way to the grounds with him. His friends knew it and would laugh him into forgetfulness as the fool who boasted. Now he understood why he had lost so many friends: they had attempted what he had sworn to attempt. Look where he would he could see only a smoke-wrapped demon who moved and shot with a speed incredible. There was reason why Slim had died. There was reason why Porous and Silent had paled when they learned of their mission.

He hated his conspicuous clothes and his pretty broncho, and the woman who had gotten him to squander his money, and who was doubtless convulsed with laughter at his expense. He worked himself into a passion which knew no fear and he ran for the streets of the town, there to make good his boast or to die. When he found his enemy he felt himself grasped with a grip of steel and Buck Peters swung him around and grinned maliciously in his face:

“You plaything!” hoarsely whispered the foreman. “Why don’t yu get away while yu can? Why do yu want to throw yoreself against certain death? I don’t want my pleasure marred by a murder, an’ that is what it will be if yu makes a gun-play at Hopalong. He’ll shoot yu as he did yore buttons. Take yore pretty clothes an’ yore pretty cayuse an’ go where this is not known, an’ if ever again yu feels like killing Hopalong, get drunk an’ forget it.”