McGlory leaned over and dropped a hard hand on Lorry's knee.
"That'll do you, my buck," said he, his low voice ringing like steel. "While my father was alive he had my respect, and I did what he told me to. What's more, he steered me plumb right. He didn't have the money your father had, but that wasn't his fault. As for the rest, just remember that my mother was your mother's sister. Whenever I go to that hill, just out of Tucson, where those two mounds are heaped up, side by side, I can stand between 'em and say, with a clear conscience, that I'm livin' square. In my place, George Lorry, you couldn't do that, and you know it."
McGlory's eyes flashed, and, on the instant, the liking Matt had already conceived for the cowboy intensified into a fast and enduring friendship. Joe McGlory had character, and the right kind of an outlook upon life.
At that moment the cab came to a halt.
"Here's the place," announced McGlory, pushing open the door, "and a fine old honkatonk it is. I've been to this place huntin' for you. Wonder why I didn't find you?"
"Probably," was the sarcastic comment of Lorry, "you didn't ask for Thompson."
Matt paid the driver of the cab, and then followed McGlory and his cousin into the dilapidated building. A frowsy-looking clerk bestirred himself and leaned over the counter, his curious gaze centring on Lorry.
"Gee Christopher!" he exclaimed, "is that you, Mr. Thompson?"
"Give me the key to my room," snarled Lorry.
The key was handed over, and Lorry led the way out of the room and up a flight of narrow stairs. A hall was traversed, and near the end of it Lorry unlocked a door, and bolted across the threshold. McGlory rushed after him, and when Matt stepped into the bare little room, the cowboy was jerking a revolver out of his cousin's hand. The drawer of a bureau, at one side of the room, was open.