pleasant pause in friendly chat, than a gathering of men on a grim and serious business.
Dunham approached at the hand-gallop his horse had held for miles, casting around for sight of Moore, thinking of the telegram he carried in the buttoned pocket of his shirt. Zora had enclosed it in a thick envelope, along with what written information he did not know. He spotted Moore as one of the trio roosting on the wagon tongue, although Moore did not recognize him in his new outfit until he pulled up in front of him.
Moore jumped up after giving the supposed cowboy a surprised squint, opened his mouth in uncouth expression of astonishment, which was as much real as pretended, lifting his big bunchy gray eyebrows until they moved his hat.
"Well, who in the hell said I was dead!" said Moore, with the feigned seriousness which, to be master of, was held one of the highest cowboy accomplishments. "This is him, gentlemen—this is the kid that killed Ira Ingram. Git down off your high horse, kid; let 'em take a squint at you in your new togs."
Bill grinned, trying to make the best of it, swung down a little stiffly, for that was the longest ride by many miles he ever had made in his life, and stood before his critics in all the rawness of unsullied hat and unbroken boots. It had jolted him to have Moore open up on him that way, with that derisive, belittling whang in his voice. It was, as he had thought before, as if he had said that fool thing himself, and must stand—to account for it all the rest of his life.
