g at and why I want to know this and that.
If you'll just answer what I ask..."

"Fire away."

For a little they smoked on in silence, Two-Hand Billy Comstock's
expression suggesting that he was planning precisely the course his
inquiries were to take before beginning.

"Let's start in this way!" he said at last. "What men around here do you
know real well, well enough to call friends?"

"I've been here only a year," Thornton told him. "I don't know many men
here real well. Friends? Outside Bud King and the boys working for me I
don't know any I'd call friend."

"Then," placidly suggested, "how about enemies? A man can make a good
many enemies in a year and not half try."

"If you'll change that to men I know pretty well and don't like, and who
don't like me, I can name a name or two."

"Let's have 'em."

"There's Henry Pollard, to begin with."

"The man you're buying from. First, how old a man is he and what does he
look like? Next, what do you know about him?"

Thornton described the man, guessed at his age, and told what he knew of
"Rattlesnake" Pollard. Comstock seemed interested in a mild sort of a
way, but neither now nor later, as Thornton spoke of other men, did he
give any sign of more than mild interest.

"Who are Pollard's friends?" was the next question.

Thornton named Ben Broderick, two other men who do not come into the
story, and Cole Dalton, the sheriff. And as he named them, Comstock
asked him to give an estimate at their ages, to tell what he knew of
them and to give as close a personal description as he could.

Having finished with Pollard and his friends he spoke of the Bedloe
boys. And United States Deputy Marshal Comstock listened throughout with
the same mild interest, merely asking questions, offering no opinions.

"One last question," he said finally. "If you had a guess who'd you say
was the bad man this county wants?"

"If any stock's missing from my range," was the blunt answer, "I'd look
up the Bedloe outfit."

Comstock, offering no opinion, smiled and sank into a thoughtful
silence.

At half past nine o'clock Thornton got to his feet and took up his hat.

"I'd better be riding," he said, putting out his hand. "Make yourself at
home."

But Comstock came to the door with him.

"If you don't mind I'll ride along," he offered carelessly. "I think my
trail runs into Dead Man's, too. And by the way, Thornton," he added a
little sharply, "my name's just plain Richard Ham