Mr. Stamps meditated a few seconds.
“Don’t look like none o’ the women folk about yere,” he replied, finally. “She ain’t their kind.”
“What d’ye mean by that?”
“Dunno eggsactly. She’s mighty white ‘n’ young-lookin’ ‘n’ delicate—but that ain’t all.”
Tom made a restless movement.
“Look here, boys,” he broke in, suddenly, “here’s a nice business—a lot of fellows asking questions about a woman an’ gossiping as if there wasn’t a thing better to do. Leave ’em alone, if they want to be left alone—leave ’em alone.”
Mr. Stamps expectorated in an entirely unbiased manner. He seemed as willing to leave his story alone as he had been to begin it.
“He’s comin’ yere,” he said, softly, after a pause. “Thet’s whar he’s comin’.”
The rest of the company straightened themselves in their seats and made an effort to assume the appearance of slightly interested spectators. It became evident that Mr. Stamps was right, and that the rider was about to dismount.
He was a man about thirty years of age, thin, narrow-chested, and stooping. His coarse clothes seemed specially ill-suited to his slender figure, his black hair was long, and his beard neglected; his broad hat was pulled low over his eyes and partially concealed his face.