He shaved and made his ablutions and got ready to travel. He inspected the rifle which Haywire had left in his room, and found it good. He was still looking it over when Haywire himself knocked at the door.
“Say, Puffesser! Mesquite is out there—” “All right, bring him right along. Hold on! I want to settle with you for this gun. And where’s that revolver that Sagebrush wanted?”
“Got it right here, Puffesser—”
Taking the old forty-five that was handed him, Ramsay paid for his rifle and then swiftly made ready for his visitor. He pulled down the blind of the window, partly darkening the room, then rubbed his face with talcum powder and seated himself without glasses or helmet, with his back to the door, the rifle in his hand. After a moment came steps, then a knock.
“Come in,” he said.
Mesquite Harrison stepped into the room and stood blinking at the swift transition from snow-dazzle to this obscurity. He was a cadaverous person with straggling mustache and rudimentary chin, adenoidal mouth and projecting front teeth; his entire countenance was stamped with viciousness and weakness, and one glance showed Ramsay that his ruse was bound to succeed.
“Heard ye wanted a guide,” said Mesquite.
“I wanted you,” said Ramsay, “and I came back to get you.”
He swung his chair around so that the light struck his face.
Mesquite Harrison uttered one low gasp, and then stood absolutely petrified, struck into helpless, motionless silence. His mouth opened, and his piggish eyes widened into round disks. He stood with hands thrown back against the door, and a ghastly pallor crept across his horrified countenance.