So he rode on day after day, smiling and content, neither
under-rating nor over-rating his enemy's ability with one weapon, but
trying to think of him as he really was. He knew that if there was any
difference between Hopalong Cassidy and himself that it must be very
slight--perhaps so slight as to result fatally to both; but if that were
so then it would have to work out as it saw fit--he at least would have
accomplished what many, many others had failed in.
In the little town of Buckskin, known hardly more than locally, and
never thought of by outsiders except as the place where the Bar-20
spent their spare time and money, and neutral ground for the surrounding
ranches, was Cowan's saloon, in the dozen years of its existence the
scene of good stories, boisterous fun, and quick deaths. Put together
roughly, of crude materials, sticking up in inartistic prominence on the
dusty edge of a dustier street; warped, bleached by the sun, and patched
with boards ripped from packing cases and with the flattened sides of
tin cans; low of ceiling, the floor one huge brown discoloration of
spring, creaking boards, knotted and split and worn into hollows, the
unpretentious building offered its hospitality to all who might be
tempted by the scrawled, sprawled lettering of its sign. The walls were
smoke-blackened, pitted with numerous small and clear-cut holes, and
decorated with initials carelessly cut by men who had come and gone.
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