turned street corners without knowing what was ahead of him. So that before Hank Hays and the two individuals with whom he was talking were aware of his presence he had seen them. They turned at his slow clinking step. Neither of the two with Hays was the man called Red.
"Hullo! here you air," spoke up Hays. "I was speakin' of you.
Meet Happy Jack an' Brad Lincoln. . . . Fellers, this stranger to Green River answers to the handle Jim Wall."
Greetings were exchanged, but not one of the three offered a hand.
Their glances meant infinitely more than the casual few words. To Wall the man called Happy Jack fitted his name. The only contradictory feature lay in his guns, which it was not possible to overlook. Like Hank Hays, he packed two. This, however, signified little to Wall. The other, Lincoln, was some one to look at twice-- a swarthy, dark, restless-eyed man, who, like Hays and his companion, had nothing of the cowboy stripe in his make-up.
"Let's have a drink," suggested Hays.
"Don't care if I do," responded Wall. "But I haven't had anything to eat for two days."
"Red's havin' supper cooked for us," said Hays, pushing open the door.
The interior, bright with lamplight, proved to be more pretentious than the outside of the saloon. It had a flagstone floor, a bar with garish display of mirrors, paintings of nude women, bottles and glasses. Several roughly clad men were drinking, and ceased talking as Hays and his companion approached. In the back of the big room three cowboys lounged before an open fireplace where some fagots burned. There were several tables, unoccupied except for a man who lay face down on one. From an open door came the savory odor of fried bacon.
The men lined up at the bar, to be served drinks by Red, who was evidently bartender as well as proprietor. Wall missed nothing.
Hays took his whisky straight and at a gulp; Happy Jack said, "Here's lookin' at you," and Lincoln sipped lingeringly. Whisky was not one of Wall's weaknesses; in fact, he could not afford to have any weakness. But he drank on politic occasions, of which this was more than usually one.
"Cow-puncher?" queried Lincoln, who stood next to Wall.
"Yes. But I've not ridden the range much of late years," replied Wall.
"You've the cut of it. Where you from?"
"Wyoming."
"Long ways. Don't know thet country. Where you aimin' for?"
"No place in particular," replied Wall, guardedly. "Might try riding here, if I can get on some outfit."
"On the dodge?" queried Lincoln, after a pause.
Wall set down his glass and turned to his interrogator. Their glances locked.
"Are you getting personal?" returned Wall, coldly.
"Not at all. I ain't curious, neither. Just askin' you."
"Ahuh. Well, what might you mean by 'on the dodge'?"
"Anybody particular lookin' for you?"
"I dare say. More than one man."
"Are you movin' along, dodgin' them?"
"Not them," retorted Wall, contemptuously.
"So I thought. Friend, you have the cut, the eye, the movement, the hand of a gun-fighter. I happen to know the brand."
"Yes? Well, if that's so, I hope it isn't against me in Utah."
Here Hays, who had heard this bit of dialogue, interposed both with personal speech.
"Wall, thet's ag'in' a man anywhere in the West, generally. So many damn fools wantin' to try you out! But I reckon it's a ticket for my outfit."
"Your outfit," declared, rather than questioned Wall, as if to corroborate the robber's direct statement of something definite.
"Shore. Don't mind Brad. He's a curious, blunt sort of cuss.
Let's go an' eat. . . . Feller's, we'll see you later."
Wall followed Hays into a back room, where a buxom woman greeted them heartily and waved them to seats at a table.
"Red's woman, an' she shore can cook," said Hays. "Wal, fall to."
No more was said during the meal. At its conclusion Jim Wall had to guard himself against the feeling of well-being, resulting from a full stomach.
"Have a cigar?" offered Hays. "They shore come high and scarce out here."
"Don't
"Hullo! here you air," spoke up Hays. "I was speakin' of you.
Meet Happy Jack an' Brad Lincoln. . . . Fellers, this stranger to Green River answers to the handle Jim Wall."
Greetings were exchanged, but not one of the three offered a hand.
Their glances meant infinitely more than the casual few words. To Wall the man called Happy Jack fitted his name. The only contradictory feature lay in his guns, which it was not possible to overlook. Like Hank Hays, he packed two. This, however, signified little to Wall. The other, Lincoln, was some one to look at twice-- a swarthy, dark, restless-eyed man, who, like Hays and his companion, had nothing of the cowboy stripe in his make-up.
"Let's have a drink," suggested Hays.
"Don't care if I do," responded Wall. "But I haven't had anything to eat for two days."
"Red's havin' supper cooked for us," said Hays, pushing open the door.
The interior, bright with lamplight, proved to be more pretentious than the outside of the saloon. It had a flagstone floor, a bar with garish display of mirrors, paintings of nude women, bottles and glasses. Several roughly clad men were drinking, and ceased talking as Hays and his companion approached. In the back of the big room three cowboys lounged before an open fireplace where some fagots burned. There were several tables, unoccupied except for a man who lay face down on one. From an open door came the savory odor of fried bacon.
The men lined up at the bar, to be served drinks by Red, who was evidently bartender as well as proprietor. Wall missed nothing.
Hays took his whisky straight and at a gulp; Happy Jack said, "Here's lookin' at you," and Lincoln sipped lingeringly. Whisky was not one of Wall's weaknesses; in fact, he could not afford to have any weakness. But he drank on politic occasions, of which this was more than usually one.
"Cow-puncher?" queried Lincoln, who stood next to Wall.
"Yes. But I've not ridden the range much of late years," replied Wall.
"You've the cut of it. Where you from?"
"Wyoming."
"Long ways. Don't know thet country. Where you aimin' for?"
"No place in particular," replied Wall, guardedly. "Might try riding here, if I can get on some outfit."
"On the dodge?" queried Lincoln, after a pause.
Wall set down his glass and turned to his interrogator. Their glances locked.
"Are you getting personal?" returned Wall, coldly.
"Not at all. I ain't curious, neither. Just askin' you."
"Ahuh. Well, what might you mean by 'on the dodge'?"
"Anybody particular lookin' for you?"
"I dare say. More than one man."
"Are you movin' along, dodgin' them?"
"Not them," retorted Wall, contemptuously.
"So I thought. Friend, you have the cut, the eye, the movement, the hand of a gun-fighter. I happen to know the brand."
"Yes? Well, if that's so, I hope it isn't against me in Utah."
Here Hays, who had heard this bit of dialogue, interposed both with personal speech.
"Wall, thet's ag'in' a man anywhere in the West, generally. So many damn fools wantin' to try you out! But I reckon it's a ticket for my outfit."
"Your outfit," declared, rather than questioned Wall, as if to corroborate the robber's direct statement of something definite.
"Shore. Don't mind Brad. He's a curious, blunt sort of cuss.
Let's go an' eat. . . . Feller's, we'll see you later."
Wall followed Hays into a back room, where a buxom woman greeted them heartily and waved them to seats at a table.
"Red's woman, an' she shore can cook," said Hays. "Wal, fall to."
No more was said during the meal. At its conclusion Jim Wall had to guard himself against the feeling of well-being, resulting from a full stomach.
"Have a cigar?" offered Hays. "They shore come high and scarce out here."
"Don't
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