By this time it was nearly nine o'clock, but a light shone in the Greiffenhagen parlour. As the young men dismounted and hitched their horses to the fence, the strains from an American organ were heard.
Pete rapped upon the door, which was opened by Greiffenhagen. He kept the village store, which was also the post-office, and, although German himself, had married an American wife. Pete said in a loud voice--
"It's kind o' late, but this is a P.P.C. call."
As he spoke, there was wafted to the nostrils of Greiffenhagen the familiar fragrance of Bourbon. He glanced at Dan and Jimmie. Each appeared almost abnormally sober and solemn. At this moment Miss Mary Willing flitted up.
"Why, it's Mr. Holloway!" she exclaimed stiffly.
The three entered. As they passed the threshold, Jimmie stumbled, but recovered himself. He saluted the ladies with decorum, and the three sat down upon the edge of the chairs that were offered to them. Then Miss Edna Parkinson, who was the only person present besides Pete who understood what was meant by a P.P.C. call, and who knew also that, the big rodeo being over, it was possible that the three cowboys had been discharged, said sympathetically--
"You ain't leaving these parts, are you?"
Pete answered grimly: "It's more'n likely that we air."
Edna glanced at Mamie, who was sniffing.
"What is it I smell?" she asked.