Such was Cowan's, the best patronized place in many hot and dusty miles
and the Mecca of the cowboys from the surrounding ranches. Often at
night these riders of the range gathered in the humble building and told
tales of exceeding interest; and on these occasions one might see a
row of ponies standing before the building, heads down and quiet. It is
strange how alike cow-ponies look in the dim light of the stars. On the
south side of the saloon, weak, yellow lamp light filtered through the
dirt on the window panes and fell in distorted patches on the plain,
blotched in places by the shadows of the wooden substitutes for glass.
It was a moonlight night late in the fall, after the last beef round-up
was over and the last drive outfit home again, that two cow-ponies stood
in front of Cowan's while their owners lolled against the bar and talked
over the latest sensation--the fencing in of the West Valley range,
and the way Hopalong Cassidy and his trail outfit had opened up the old
drive trail across it. The news was a month old, but it was the last
event of any importance and was still good to laugh over.
"Boys," remarked the proprietor, "I want you to meet Mr. Elkins. He came
down that trail last week, an' he didn't see no fence across it." The
man at the table arose slowly. "Mr. Elkins, this is Sandy Lucas, an'
Wood Wright, of the C-80.
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