“Is there no coach, no vehicle, to take me?” asked Trafford.
“Nary one,” said Johnson, coolly. “You’ll have to hire a horse here an’ take yer luggage in front of you, or leave it an’ get some of the Three Star boys to drive over for it.”
Trafford walked into the hut which was dignified by the name of station, and looked round for a horse.
He succeeded in hiring one, and was preparing to start, when Johnson, who had been regarding him curiously, laid a huge hand upon his shoulder.
“Ain’t yer goin’ to have somethin’ to eat an’ drink?” he said, not unkindly, as he looked at the worn face. “It’s a long ride to Three Star, an’ to my knowledge you’ve had neither bite nor sup for a devil of a time.”
Trafford shook his head.
“Well, I say you shall drink, at any rate,” said Johnson, quietly; and he called for a glass of whisky and water.
Trafford drank it, more to please the man than because he acknowledged the need of it, and Johnson, tossing the empty glass to a stable help, said:
“Have you got yer revolver all fixed up? You may need it; there’s some rough characters about, an’ they’re fond of target practice.”