ering, until his tall form passed through the
doorway and stood over the smoker. The man turned a little, watching him
as he drew near.

"Howdy, Stranger," Thornton said quietly.

"Mr. Thornton?" smiled the other. "You see I've been making myself at
home."

He rose and put out a hand, a small, hard, brown hand which the cowboy
accepted carelessly and released marvelling. Its grip was as strong as
his own, the muscles like rock.

The man was of medium stature, looking small beside the towering form of
his host. He was dressed quietly and well, trousers still preserving the
lines left by the tailor's iron, his coat fitting closely about the
compact muscular shoulders, his soft shirt white and clean. He was a
sandy haired man of forty, perhaps, clean shaven, square jawed, with
very bright, very clear brown eyes.

All this Thornton saw at one swift glance. He tossed his hat to the
table, pulled another chair toward him, and sat down.

"Glad you made yourself at home," he said then, "Find anything to eat?"

The stranger nodded.

"I've been here three hours, and I was hungry. So I raided the bunk
house."

"That's right." He brought out his paper and tobacco, making his
cigarette slowly, his eyes alone asking the other his business.

"I want a little talk with you, Mr. Thornton. But maybe I'd better wait
until you've eaten?"

"Had my supper an hour ago," Thornton replied. "Made camp with the boys
before I came in. Fire away, Stranger."

"All right. First thing, my name's Comstock."

The keen eyes which had measured the cowboy as he came through the door
were very bright upon him now. Thornton nodded. The name meant nothing
to him.

"Don't get me?" laughed Comstock. "Well, well, it's a shock to vanity,
but after all one's fame is a poor crippled bird that doesn't fly far."
He paused a moment, then added quietly, as though this other information
might help his bird "to fly." "My stamping ground's New Mexico."

Thornton's look showed nothing beyond a faint curiosity; one would have
said that he was as little interested in this man's stamping ground as
in his name.

"One more try," laughed Comstock easily, "and I'll give up. Two-Hand
Billy Comstock.... Aha, I get you now!"

For now Buck Thornton started and his eyes did show interest and a
sudden flash of surprise. For fifteen years Two-Hand Billy Comstock,
United States Deputy Marshal, had been widely known throughout the great
South-west, a man who asked n