The Westerner looked at him with a little hard smile. He was tall and gaunt and dressed in baggy clothes, but there was a hint of power in his face, which was lined, and deeply bronzed by exposure to the weather.
"Well," he retorted, "what do you expect, Percy, if you talk to them like that? But I want to thank you and your partner for taking care of my girl when she went to see the wreck. Fellow on the cars told me—said you were a gritty pup!"
Edgar looked confused, but the man drew an old skin bag out of his pocket.
"It's domestic leaf; take a smoke."
"No, thanks," said Edgar quickly. "I've no doubt it's excellent, but I really prefer the common Virginia stuff."
"Matter of habit," replied the other. "I don't carry cigars; they're expensive. Going far West?"
"We get off at Sage Butte."
"It's called Butte. I'm located in that district."
"Then I wonder if you knew an Englishman named Marston?" George interposed.
"I certainly did; he died last winter. Oughtn't to have come out farming; he hadn't the grip."