The saddlebags over his arm, Robinson went to the barber shop. There he obtained a shave, followed by a bath, and from the saddlebags he spruced up with a clean shirt and handkerchief—also a second gun.
His pilgrimage now took him to the nearest and only restaurant, where he put away a huge order of ham and eggs, with other things. This done, he dropped his saddlebags at the hotel, loosened his belt, bought a cigar, and sauntered down the street again. Thus far he had seen no signs of Mr. Murphy, and he rightly concluded that the gentleman was sequestered in or about Mike’s Place.
These errands had taken up considerable time. The stage was nearly due, and the town showed some symptoms of animation. Horses fringed the long hitching rail in the square. A number of loungers about the sheriff’s office showed that the posse had returned. Unhurried, Robinson sauntered to the post office and presented a smiling face at the window.
“Mail for Fisher, please,” he requested.
The postmaster fished several long envelopes from a box, glanced at them, then gave Robinson a hard look.
“Nothin’ fer you, I guess.”
“Your mistake, mister,” and Robinson smiled. “Those letters are for me, I believe.”
“These here is for Sheriff Sam Fisher o’ Pecos County.”
Robinson drew a flat metal object from his pocket and laid it on the shelf.
“Does that satisfy you? If not, I’ll come around and get my own mail.”