“Yes,” the other man admitted.
“You can ride out to his place in half an hour.”
“Rather see him first and size him up,” the stranger stated. “Harvest is coming on and he might use a hand. But I always like to look a man over before I hire out to him.”
The saloon keeper nodded without comment. This was no harvest hand. The stranger’s face was stamped with ruthlessness; straight thin lips, and above them a pair of wide-set cold black eyes.
“Point him out to me when he comes in, will you?” he requested. “So’s I can sort of size him up.”
Again the barman nodded. He noted the convenient arrangement; the open back door with the saddled horse just outside.
“Sure,” he laconically assented. “I’ll tip you.”
Carver failed to appear and when the usual evening crowd began to assemble the stranger departed. The following afternoon he reappeared, leaving his horse at the same convenient post just outside the rear entrance.
“You’d never recognize me if you was to see me again, now would you?” he asked the proprietor. “You couldn’t accurately describe me right now; and for all you can remember that bay horse of mine is a sorrel.”
He shoved two gold coins across the bar and fixed the other man with his black eyes. The saloon man pocketed the money.