quaintance with cactus. Like his horse, this man was a giant in
stature, but rangier, not so heavily built. Otherwise the only striking
thing about him was his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hair
white over the temples. He packed two guns, both low down--but that was
too common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close observer,
however, would have noted a singular fact--this rider's right hand was
more bronzed, more weather-beaten than his left. He never wore a glove
on that right hand!

He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon its wide,
high-boarded front the sign, "Hotel." There were horsemen coming and
going down the wide street between its rows of old stores, saloons,
and houses. Ord certainly did not look enterprising. Americans had
manifestly assimilated much of the leisure of the Mexicans. The hotel
had a wide platform in front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk.
Upon it, and leaning against a hitching-rail, were men of varying ages,
most of them slovenly in old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some were
booted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all wore
vests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the men.

It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did not
appear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kind
natural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men were
idlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture. Certainly to this
arriving stranger, who flashed a keen eye over them, they wore an
atmosphere never associated with work.

Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurely
detached himself from the crowd.

"Howdy, stranger," he said.

The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up and
nodded. Then: "I'm thirsty!"

That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting.
One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark,
ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head.
A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks.

"Line up, gents," said the stranger.

They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and
oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear
so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the
motions, he did not drink at all.

"My name's Jim Fletcher," said the tall man with the drooping, sandy
mustache. He spoke la