FEW people were passing that hour, for it was late for respectable Cottonwood, and the other half didn't roam down into that section. Texas had not waited long on the bench beside the door, scanning hurriedly every man who came into view, his mind alert, his hand ready to his gun, when the one for whom he waited came.
The stranger approached him without hesitation, Texas standing, turning to bring his elbow free from interference against the wall.
"Hello, Texas," came the familiar hail.
"Sir, good evening," Texas returned, watching the stranger narrowly, puzzled by his familiarity.
The stranger was of medium height, but' slender. He was dressed in the regulation cowboy style, except that his chaparejos were of plain leather instead of the hairy kind so much in vogue at that time on the Arkansas Valley range.
He was standing where the light fell full on him through the open door, and the friendliness of his attitude was as mystifying to Texas as his identity.
"Don't you know me, Texas?"
