The tinkling guitar, the simple, plaintive melody, sounded to Lambert as refreshing as the plash of a brook in the heat of the day. He stood listening, his elbow on the show case, thinking vaguely that Alta had a good voice for singing babies to sleep.
Wood stood in the door again, his stump of arm lifted a little with an alertness about it that made Lambert think of a listening ear. He looked up and down the street in that uneasy, inquiring way that Lambert had remarked on his arrival, then came back and got himself a cigar. He stood across the counter from Lambert a little while, smoking, his brows drawn in trouble, his eyes shifting constantly to the door.
"Duke," said he, as if with an effort, "there's a man in town lookin' for you. I thought I'd tell you."
"Lookin' for me? Who is he?"
"Sim Hargus."
"You don't mean Nick?"
"No; he's Nick's brother. I don't suppose you ever met him."
"He's only been back from Wyoming a week or two. He was over there some time—several years, I believe."
"In the pen over there?"