PAINTED ROCK
ruddy-bearded. Some called him Ginger. Tom did for one. His right hand was a wreck, a jagged, fired stump; his left was strong as steel. In his eyes was the Western look; those who have seen it know it. Those who haven't seen it have missed something that makes for human dignity. He spoke little.
"Tom Willett has told you that I was coming?" I asked.
Northrop nodded. "He said he had a cable from you."
He eyed me with that clear and calm aspect of curiosity which never offends. He was "sizing me up."
"Do you mean to take a hand, sir?"
He accentuated the "sir" heavily, marking nothing thereby but a double interrogation. I shook my head.
"It's not my line. But I reckoned on hearing how things stood."
We were standing outside the hotel on the wooden side-walk that was full of traps for the "full" and the unwary. The road was yellow dust; a yellow mongrel lay in the middle of the
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