conically, nevertheless there was a tone that
showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The
stranger did not appear to be impressed.

"My name might be Blazes, but it ain't," he replied. "What do you call
this burg?"

"Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to
you?"

He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as
crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowded
close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise,
according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer.

"Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it?
Funny trails hereabouts."

"How fur was you goin'?"

"I reckon I was goin' as far as I could," replied the stranger, with a
hard laugh.

His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of the
men exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemed
thoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny.

"Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place," he said, presently. "Sure you've
heerd of the Big Bend country?"

"I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it," replied the stranger.

Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. "Knell,
come in heah."

This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more than
a boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionless
face, thin and sharp.

"Knell, this heah's--" Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. "What'd you
call yourself?"

"I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately."

This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless,
indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this show
of Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while he
was looked over.

Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher
relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he had
appeared upon the scene.

"Any business here?" he queried, curtly. When he spoke his
expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality,
the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, of
friendliness, of heart.

"Nope," replied the stranger.

"Know anybody hereabouts?"

"Nary one."

"Jest ridin' through?"

"Yep."

"Slopin' fer back country, eh?"

There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful and
drew himself up disdainfully.