"We haven't any that ain't visible. How would safety-pins do?"
"Never mind; give me the bottle and the matches," said the other, glancing at a very handsome gold watch. "Is the old man still holding my horse?" he called to a citizen near the door. Seven necks stretched simultaneously to accommodate him, and seven voices answered in the affirmative. The stranger calmly opened the box of matches, filled his silver match-safe, and then threw the box back on the counter, an unheard-of piece of profligacy in those parts. "Needn't mind wrapping up the bottle," he said.
"Don't you care for these matches?" asked Mr. Lamson in mild surprise.
"I'll donate them to the church," said the other, tossing a coin upon the counter and dashing from the store. The crowd ebbed along behind him. "Gentle as a lamb, isn't he?" he called to Anderson Crow, who still clutched the bit. "Much obliged, sir; I'll do as much for you some day. If you're ever in New York, hunt me up and I'll see that you have a good time. What road do I take to Crow's Cliff?"
"Turn to your left here," said Anderson Crow before he thought. Then he called himself a fool for being so obliging to the fellow.
"How far is it from here?"
"Mile and a half," again answered Mr. Crow helplessly. This time he almost swore under his breath.
"But he can't get there," volunteered one of the bystanders.
"Why can't he?" demanded the marshal.
"Bridge over Turnip Creek is washed out. Did you forget that?"