``Where yuh goin'?''

It was the barkeep. Halting, Pat turned to survey him deliberately. He did not reply, going on toward the back. Less assured than the tall, wide shouldered man in the lead, Cobb followed alertly, a hand on his gun butt. The bartender measured this situation with heavy eyes and decided he wanted no part of it. He said no more.

A hall opened in back of the bar, running toward an ell. Pat moved into it. Small rooms, probably for cards, opened off on either side. All the doors were open at this hour except one, and it was toward this that Stevens made his way with Russ close at his shoulder.

The door was locked. A single kick made it spring open, shuddering. Pat saw Gyp Carmer staggering forward, a half filled bottle upraised as if to strike. Russ sprang through to bat it nimbly aside. With a bellow Carmer lunged at him. But he was more than half drunk, and his faculties were dulled. Cobb unleashed a single powerful jab that sent Gyp reeling wildly and crashing down with a whining groan. He started to struggle up, heaving desperately. Russ gave him a brutal thrust that tumbled him over flat on his stomach. Kneeling, Cobb planted a sturdy knee in the small of his back, holding him pinned.

``Okay, Stevens. I've drawn his fangs,'' he snapped. ``Go through his pockets, will you? If we have to we'll take him apart and see what he's made of!''

Complying methodically, Pat pulled pocket after pocket inside out without finding a thing. Cobb watched this with hunted eyes, his desperate hope waning by the moment. Stevens was grunting over the last empty pocket when Russ abruptly rose and lunged toward Carmer's hat, which had tumbled half-a-dozen feet away when he first fell. Cobb got it. Straightening up, his eyes ablaze, he held out the battered Stetson.