It was late afternoon when Jack Robinson rode into the town of Pahrump, county seat of the county of the same name. The town was deserted apparently; somnolent and sleepy. The afternoon stage was not yet in with the mail. The courthouse square, with its long hitching rail, seemed abandoned to flies and sunlight. Even the jail and sheriff’s office looked desolate; across the street from this last, Mike’s Place showed not a sign of life.
Robinson went to the hotel and turned his horse into the corral there, leaving his saddle and bridle in the hotel office for safe-keeping. He then made his way to Main Street and sought the telegraph office. There was no line in Pahrump, but the telephone exchange handled messages. At the exchange, Robinson smiled at the young woman in charge.
“I left a message here yesterday, ma’am, askin’ you to hold up any answer. Name of Fisher.”
Without comment the young woman handed him a message. Robinson pocketed it, returned to the street, glanced at the message, and chuckled.
“What I need is grub, a bath, and a shave,” he reflected. “Fresh shirt wouldn’t hurt anything, not to mention a clean handkerchief. Grub can come last.”
The stage and express office, an integral unit with the Johnson Merchandise Company, lay across the street. Robinson betook himself thither and confronted a listless clerk.
“What’s all the excitement about in town?” he demanded. The clerk saw no humor in the question, but answered it seriously:
“Two men shot up yesterday; sheriff’s gone out with a posse. Dunno why.”
“I don’t know why, either,” said Robinson cheerfully. “You ought to have a pair of saddlebags sent up by express from Pecos City. Name of Fisher.”
“Come in last night,” was the response.