“How are yer, miss? Is this yere the ranch where Brad Buckhart can be found?”
Maggie was tempted to close the door in the face of that bewhiskered, sunburned, booted, and spurred man. From his Stetson hat to his high-heeled boots he looked like the burlesque Western desperado seen on the stage. Around his waist he wore a loose belt which supported a pistol holster, the latter, however, being empty.
“Mr. Buckhart—he—rooms here,” faltered Maggie, “but you see, sir—he—ain’t to home now.”
“Waal, that’s all right, my gal,” said the fierce-looking man, “I’ll just walk in and wait for him. You see I’m from his father’s ranch, the Bar Z, and the old man axed me to look up Brad while I was on yere. You can show me his room, little gal. I’ll squat thar.”
Shiveringly Maggie led the way to Buckhart’s room, into which the visitor strode with an air of perfect self-assurance.
“I—I’m afraid you’ll have to wait an awful long time, sir,” said the girl. “I understand Mr. Buckhart he has gone away somewhere, sir.”
“Waal, whar’s he gone?”
“I dunno, sir. I dunno’s anybody knows, sir.”
Dick Merriwell looked in from the adjoining room. He had the singular letter in his hand, for he was still puzzling over it.
“Do you want to see Buckhart, sir?” he inquired.