As a rule he responded by ordering everyone up to the bar.
One man, however, received no more greeting than the slamming of the door behind him.

He was a tall, handsome fellow with tawny hair and a little smile of habit rather than mirth upon his lips.

He had ridden up on a strong bay horse, a full two hands taller than the average cattle pony, and with legs and shoulders and straight back that unmistakably told of a blooded pedigree.

When he entered the saloon he seemed nowise abashed by the silence, but greeted the turned heads with a wave of the hand and a good-natured "Howdy, boys!" A volley of greetings replied to him, for in the mountain-desert men cannot be strangers after the first word.
"Line up and hit the red-eye," he went on, and leaning against the bar as he spoke, his habitual smile broadened into one of actual invitation.

Except for a few groups who watched the gambling in the corners of the big room, there was a general movement towards the bar.
"And make it a tall one, boys," went on the genial stranger.