It was early morning in the town of Welcome; the cold gray dawn of a fall morning, with a brisk breeze, which caused the livery-stable keeper to slap his hands violently against his thigh, as he watered a team of horses at the trough in front of the stable.
On the rough porch of a saloon a swamper swept away an accumulation of playing-cards, cigarette-butts, and other litter of a gambling-house and saloon. The cards slithered away in the breeze like autumn leaves. From a blacksmith shop came the musical clank of a hammer on anvil, as the smithy tuned up for his morning task.
Two cowboys came from the doorway of a small hotel, pausing for a moment on the edge of the sidewalk, before crossing the street toward a cafe. They walked with the peculiar rolling gait of men who wear high-heeled boots, their elbows held closely to their sides, as is the habit of men who spend most of their lives in the saddle.
One cowboy was well over six feet tall, thin, angular. His features were heavily lined, nose rather large, wide mouth, and gray eyes. The other cowboy was less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder, with a square face, out of which beamed a pair of blue eyes, now slightly clouded with sleep. His face was grin-wrinkled and his eyes were nested in a mass of tiny lines, caused from their owner’s propensity for seeing the funny side of life.
The tall one was “Hashknife” Hartley, and the other was “Sleepy” Stevens, strangers to Welcome town.
“The wind she blow, pretty soon we have snow, and what will poor robin do then, poor thing?” grinned Sleepy.
“Yu-u-uh betcha!” grunted Hashknife. “She’s gettin’ a long ways north for summer clothes.”
They entered the restaurant and sat down. Just behind them came Bill Warren, former dealer for Angel McCoy at Red Arrow. Warren nodded to them and sat down at their table.
“Been dealin’ all night,” he said briskly. “Some fellers never know when to quit playin’. Strangers here, ain’t yuh?”
“Came in late last night,” said Hashknife.