Next he saw many horses with bridles down--all clean-limbed, dark bays or blacks--rustlers' horses! Loud voices and boisterous laughter, rattle of dice and scrape of chair and clink of gold, burst in mingled din from an open doorway.

He stepped inside.
With the sight of smoke-hazed room and drinking, cursing, gambling, dark-visaged men, reality once more dawned upon Venters.
His entrance had been unnoticed, and he bent his gaze upon the drinkers at the bar.

Dark-clothed, dark-faced men they all were, burned by the sun, bow-legged as were most riders of the sage, but neither lean nor gaunt.

Then Venters's gaze passed to the tables, and swiftly it swept over the hard-featured gamesters, to alight upon the huge, shaggy, black head of the rustler chief.
"Oldring!" he cried, and to him his voice seemed to split a bell in his ears.
It stilled the din.
That silence suddenly broke to the scrape and crash of Oldring's chair as he rose; and then, while he passed, a great gloomy figure, again the thronged room stilled in silence yet deeper.
"Oldring, a word with you!" continued Venters.
"Ho! What's this ?" boomed Oldring, in frowning scrutiny.
"Come outside, alone.

A word for you--from your Masked Rider!" Oldring kicked a chair out of his way and lunged forward with a stamp of heavy boot that jarred the floor.