"Near forty miles," answered Johnny.
"I say it ag'in—there ain't no name fit for that hoss. She looks like she come five," and he passed out.
"Don't mind him," said Dave. "But where did he git that dollar? Steal it? Find it? Reckon he found it. I near dropped dead. Pore devil—he come here last winter an' walks in, cleans my boxes an' sweeps. Then he goes 'round to th' hotel an' mops an' cleans th' pans better than they ever was before. He was so handy an' useful that we let him stay. An' I've never seen him more than half drunk—it's amazin' th' liquor he can hold."
"Sleep here?"
"No; an' nobody knows where he does sleep. He's cunnin' as a fox, an' fooled 'em every time. But wherever it is, it's dry."
Johnny produced a Sharp's single-shot cartridge. "Where can I get some of these Specials?" he asked.
Dave looked at it "'.45-120-550'—you won't get none of 'em down in this country."
"Post office in town?"
"Not yet. Th' nearest is Rawlins, thirty mile east, with th' worst trail a man ever rode. Th' next is Highbank, forty mile south. We use that, for th' trail's good. We get mail about twice a month. Th' Bar H an' th' Triangle take turns at it."
"Then I'll write for some of these after I feed. I'll tell 'em to send 'em to you, at Highbank. What name will I give?"