The lovable liar

Tecoma consisted of a little depot, a saloon and a restaurant. Inasmuch as the saloon and restaurant were in the same building, it made Tecoma a two-house town. The railroad time table showed that Tecoma had an elevation of five thousand feet, and that certain trains would stop there on a flag.

There was a wagon road of sorts from Tecoma down into the Moolock cattle country, and this alleged road also wound its way from Tecoma back to the mines of the Bearpaw district. The main street of Tecoma was this road, if it might be termed a street. In front of the saloon and restaurant was a long hitch-rack, where a horse might have the privilege of standing at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

Just now it was after dark. The restaurant was closed, as was the depot; but from the open saloon door a shaft of yellow light illuminated part of the rough porch. Inside the saloon, five men sat at a poker table, playing rather indifferently. The stakes were not high enough to make it interesting for a tall, raw-boned cowboy, who yawned wearily and shoved back from the table.

“I wish there was a hotel here,” he said. “Ain’t even a stable where yuh can feed a horse.”

“And that’s whatever,” agreed the proprietor. “Tecoma ain’t no town, pardner. ’F I had a bed I’d offer it to you and your pardner; but all I’ve got is a cot t’ sleep on.”

“It’s about twenty miles to Moolock,” offered the man who owned the restaurant. “The road ain’t none too good, but yuh can get a bed in Moolock.”

The tall cowboy yawned again and squinted at his partner, “Sleepy” Stevens. Sleepy was slightly below the average in height, with broad shoulders, slightly bowed legs and a pair of perfectly innocent blue eyes. His face was angular, almost serious in repose, but at the slightest provocation it would break into a mass of grin-wrinkles, like the ripples from a stone cast into a quiet pool.

“What do yuh think about it, Sleepy?” asked “Hashknife” Hartley, the tall one. “Shall we gird up our broncs and hie away for this Moolock town?”

“Jist so well as not, I reckon,” said Sleepy. “Might as well be ridin’ as settin’ here. I ain’t held better than a pair of jacks since supper.”

“You fellers come in from the Bearpaw?” asked the saloon man.

“Yeah,” said Hashknife. “We came in over the Grayling trail. Some darned liar told us that there was a lot of unlocated land up there--land that was pretty rich; but he lied, as usual. What kind of a country is this Moolock?”

“Cows, mostly. Lot of good outfits. Frank Allenby owns the Half-Circle Cross, the biggest outfit.”

Hashknife looked curiously at Sleepy, who regarded him innocently. They cashed in their few chips, bought a supply of tobacco from the saloon keeper, and went out to the hitch-rack.

As they started to untie their horses, Sleepy grunted wonderingly. He had ridden a roan horse into Tecoma, but the horse he was looking at now was decidedly gray. Its head was hanging low with fatigue and its coat was drying rough with lather.

He called softly to Hashknife, who was doing a little swearing over his own discovery.

“I’ve got a pinto,” grunted Hashknife, as Sleepy blurted out the fact that he had drawn a gray.

There were only two horses at the rack, and only one rack in the town. Sleepy scratched a match and discovered that whoever had made the substitution had changed saddles too.