Before we came in sight of the Half-Way House we heard the dull rasp of a saw, and then, topping the second last roll of the sandy hills and swinging round the base of the last one, we went rocketing up to the hotel. A man at the wood trestle, which stood at the gable-end, straightened himself and looked up at our approach, and I saw that he was the red-headed man who had "held up" Apache Kid at the Rest House on our last journey.
Apache Kid's face went a trifle more thoughtful at sight of him, but just then Miss Pinkerton appeared at the door to welcome us. But when we alighted I detected something new in her manner toward us. What it was I cannot exactly tell. Certainly she was just as demure, as open-eyed, as natural as before. But she did not seem to require our presence now for all that she welcomed us in a friendly way. There was that in her manner that made me think she would bid us farewell just as innocently and pleasantly, and straightway forget about us. Her welcome seemed a duty.
"These are the two gentlemen I told you about, George," she said to the red-headed man. "Mr. Brooks," she introduced, "but I don't know your names, gentlemen, beyond just Apache Kid and Francis."
George nodded to us.
"I guess these names will serve," said he. "How do, gentlemen? Kind of close this eve."
"It is, indeed," said Apache Kid. "The Summer is ended, the harvest is past," he quoted.
"Yes," said George, "there is that feeling in the air, now."
"As if the end of all things was at hand," said Apache Kid.
He was looking George right in the eyes.
I thought something forbidding was in their exchange of glances, but then of course I had seen them meet before in the peculiar circumstances of which you know. Margaret, I think, saw nothing noteworthy (for all she was a woman), but then, she did not know that these men were acquainted; they gave no sign of that.