Steele Weir driving his car down the street in the dusk had caught sight of Felipe Martinez standing near the cattle company’s office. He stopped close by, beckoned. Martinez would do as well as another.
“You’re a notary, I suppose?” he questioned.
“Yes, Mr. Weir. Most of us lawyers here are,” he replied politely, when he had advanced.
“I’ve some papers I want acknowledged to-night. Must get them into the mail going down to Bowenville in the morning.”
“Only too pleased to facilitate your business, Mr. Weir. My office is down a few doors.”
“Jump in.”
“It’s but a few steps.”
“Then I’ll get out here.” And the engineer stopped the engine and descended to the ground.
Along the street open doorways and windows were already beginning to make yellow panels of lamplight in the thin gloom. The air was still warm, balmy, scented by the lingering aroma of the greasewood smoke of supper fires in Mexican ovens. Stars were jeweling the sky. Few persons moved in the twilight.
One of these was a man who, standing at the door of a native saloon across the street and a little farther up, had come diagonally over towards the bank on seeing the engineer halt his car. He walked with a slouching haste 54 seldom exhibited by a Mexican and gained the spot as Weir stepped out. There he slackened his pace while he scanned the American with an intense, slow gaze that the engineer, chancing to raise his eyes, squarely met.