"'Bout two miles, we cal'late it by the new road," returned the proprietor as he re-corked the bottle. "You'll see the new road 'bout a hundred rod 'bove here to the left; you can't miss it."
"I've got a letter from Thayor himself," explained the stranger, as he squinted over his hooked nose and searched cautiously the contents of an inside pocket. "It's for a man named Holcomb—he's Thayor's superintendent, ain't he?"
"Yes," said Morrison, "and a durn good one, too. I'll warrant Sam
Thayor got the feller he was lookin' for when he got Billy."
"Ain't the job gettin' too big for him?" ventured the man with an attempt at a grin under the thick beard that grew to the corners of his crafty eyes.
"He kin handle any job he's a mind to," said Morrison with rough emphasis.
"Um!" grunted the man. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Bill Morrison—and yourn?"
"Bergstein."
Morrison leaned forward over the bar and his brow tightened:
"Guess I've hearn of you before—horse-trader, bean't ye?"