Red grabbed him by the seat of his corduroys and the collar of his shirt and helped him outside, where they strolled about, taking pot shots at whatever their fancy suggested.
Down the street in a cloud of dust rumbled the Las Cruces-El Paso stage and the two punchers went up to meet it.

Raw furrows showed in the woodwork, one mule was missing and the driver and guard wore fresh bandages.

A tired tenderfoot leaped out with a sigh of relief and hunted for his baggage, which he found to be generously perforated.

Swearing at the God-forsaken land where a man had to fight highwaymen and Indians inside of half a day he grumblingly lugged his valise toward a forbidding-looking shack which was called a hotel.
The driver released his teams and then turned to Red.

"Hullo, old hoss, how's th' gang ?" he asked genially.