WHO HAD A LIEN ON IT It was high noon at Tres Pinos.

The three pines from which it gained its name, in the dusty road and hot air, seemed to smoke from their balsamic spires.

There was a glare from the road, a glare from the sky, a glare from the rocks, a glare from the white canvas roofs of the few shanties and cabins which made up the village.

There was even a glare from the unpainted red-wood boards of Roscommon's grocery and tavern, and a tendency of the warping floor of the veranda to curl up beneath the feet of the intruder.

A few mules, near the watering trough, had shrunk within the scant shadow of the corral.
The grocery business of Mr.Roscommon, although adequate and sufficient for the village, was not exhausting nor overtaxing to the proprietor; the refilling of the pork and flour barrel of the average miner was the work of a brief hour on Saturday nights, but the daily replenishment of the average miner with whisky was arduous and incessant.