While no larger than Dutch Springs, this mining supply town had the appearance of being far busier and more prosperous. Men crowded the streets and freight rigs and teams were moving about. Although they were forced to maintain a sharper watch, this activity enabled them to ride in and rack their broncs without any particular attention being paid them.

``Gyp'll be holdin ' forth in some bar if he's here at all,'' Cobb declared, glancing along the street as they stretched their legs.

There were no less than six or seven saloons in Ganado, not counting the lower class dives, all vying for the trade of celebrating miners and teamsters. Pat only nodded. ``Take one side of the street, and I'll take the other,'' he proposed. ``If you spot Carmer give a yell before you move in.''

Cobb's assent was tight. ``You do the same. It's all I ask, Stevens.''

Separating, they took different sides of the main drag and systematically combed the bars. Russ visited two places without result and his blood pressure was down to zero. Suddenly it seemed to him insane that they might hope to locate Gyp Carmer so casually, even were he to prove the thief. He tramped out of the Miners Rest with his hopes plummeting, and headed doggedly for the Palace Saloon, the last place of any consequence on this side of the street.

The Palace was an elaborate establishment, built practically on stilts in front, with long flights of wooden steps running up to the porch. Behind its ornate facade the notorious dive clung like a bird's nest to the rocky ribs of the canyonside. Russ ran up the steps quickly to the plank porch. The front windows of the place were long and narrow, reaching nearly to the floor and affording an unusually good view of the interior. Heading for the batwings, Cobb glanced perfunctorily through the nearest window, and suddenly dodged aside. Nerves tight as a bowstring, he paused to gather his wits.