Matt was about to lend him the money for his railroad ticket, when a form darkened the door and stepped into the room.
"Goin' somewheres?" queried a voice. "Well, I wouldn't, George—not jest yet."
It was Jed Spearman. Behind him came Slim, and back of Slim trailed the cowboy who had been referred to as "Hen."
Matt, greatly alarmed, sprang up and stepped forward.
"Don't lay a hand on that man, Spearman," said Matt. "His father is sick at Fort Totten, and he's got to go there in a hurry."
"Oh, ho!" guffawed the foreman. "If here ain't Motor Matt, who was flyin' this way on gov'ment bizness! An' the chink that run off with the guns, an' t'other chap as lit out with our live stock. Waal, now, ain't this here a pleasin' surprise—fer us? Don't git vi'lent, any o' ye. Three o' us is in here, and thar's three more watchin' on the outside. I reckon the boot's on the other leg, this deal, hey, Slim?"
"I reckon," agreed Slim. "This is a whole lot funnier than that other game, over on the coteau."
"Don't ye ask us ter put down our guns an' do no more pushin'," said Spearman. "Ye kain't work that joke on us twicet, hand-runnin'. We've cut our eyeteeth, we hev. Got any weppins among ye?"
Newt Prebbles, glaring at the Tin Cup men, had backed into a corner. He had his eye on the broken window, and Spearman observed his intention.
"Don't ye never try that, George," he grinned. "Ye'd be riddled like a salt shaker afore ye'd hit the ground."