" came the easy reply.

The door of the hotel opened and two men came out, eyeing the newcomer
and his horse critically. Then they propped themselves in leisurely
fashion against the door-casing, and chewed silently, while they gazed
abroad with marked unconcern.

Tresler hazarded another question. He felt strange in this company. It
was his first real acquaintance with a prairie settlement, and he
didn't quite know what to expect.

"I wonder if there is any one to see to my horse," he said with some
hesitation.

"Hitch him to the tie-post an' ast in ther'," observed the
uncommunicative man, pointing to a post a few yards from the door, but
without losing interest in the other's nether garments.

"That sounds reasonable."

Tresler moved off and secured his horse and loosened the
saddle-girths.

"Pardon me, sir," he said, when he came back, his well-trimmed six
feet towering over the other's five feet four. "Might I ask whom I
have the pleasure of addressing? My name is John Tresler; I am on my
way to Mosquito Bend, Julian Marbolt's ranch. A stranger, you see, in
a strange land. No doubt you have observed that already," he finished
up good-naturedly.

But the other's attention was not to be diverted from the interesting
spectacle of the corduroys, and he answered without shifting his gaze.

"My name's Ranks--gener'ly called 'Slum.' Howdy."

"Well, Mr. Ranks----"

"Gener'ly called 'Slum,'" interrupted the other.

"Mr. Slum, then----" Tresler smiled.

"Slum!"

The man's emphasis was marked. There was no cheating him of his due.
"Slum" was his sobriquet by the courtesy of prairie custom. "Ranks"
was purely a paternal heirloom and of no consequence at all.

"Well, Slum," Tresler laughed, "suppose we go and sample Carney's
refreshments. I'm tired, and possess a thirst."

He stepped toward the doorway and looked back. Mr. Ranks had not
moved. Only his wondering eyes had followed the other's movements.

"Won't you join me?" Tresler asked. Then, noting the fixed stare in
the man's eyes, he went on with some impatience, "What the dickens are
you staring at?" And, in self-defense, he was forced into a survey of
his own riding-breeches.

Slum looked up. A twinkle of amusement shone beneath his heavy brows,
while a broad grin parted the hair on his face.

"Oh, jest nothin'," he said amiably. "I wer' kind o' figgerin' out
what sort of a feller them pants o' yours wus made for." He doused the
brown earth at h