Bar full of Cowboys. Enter
ROARING PETE,
slouching, head forward, chin projecting, a shooting iron in each hand, bowie between his teeth, swords stuck in his puttees. He is hailed with shouts and cocktails.
THE MEDICINE MAN,
an old Indian, stands on sidewalk, scratching his head with great earnestness and a piece of tile. He looks at bar; smacks his lips; points; evidently intends entering to obtain
“WHAT A DRINK IS WORTH.”
The Caste.