Walker came over and stood beside the near wheel.
“One of them was Hun Shanklin!” said he, whispering up loudly for the doctor’s ear, a look of deep concern on his youthful face.
Slavens nodded with what show of unconcern he could assume. For, knowing what he knew, he wondered what the gambler was there for, and why he seemed so anxious to keep the matter of his identity to himself.
When they arrived at Comanche the sun was down. Mrs. Reed hurried June indoors, all exclamations and shudders over what she believed to have been a very narrow escape. Vowing that she never would go exploring around in that wild land again, she whisked off without a word for Smith.
The others shook hands with the driver, Agnes coming last. He took off his hat when it came her turn.
“Keep your eyes skinned,” he advised her, “and 77 don’t let ’em play you for a sucker. Any time you need advice, or any help that I can give you, if I’m not here I’m on the road between here and Meander. You can git me over there by telephone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” said she warmly and genuinely, wondering why he should take such an unaccountable interest in her.
The others had gone about their business, thinking strongly of supper, leaving Smith and her alone beside the old green stage.
“But don’t ask for Smith if you call me up,” said he, “for that’s only my first name, and they’s a horse-wrangler over there with that for his last. They might think you wanted him.”
“Oh, I didn’t know!” she stammered, all confusion over the familiarity that she had been taking all day. “I didn’t know your other name–nobody ever told me.”