Outside near the curb a crowd had collected. A traffic officer was talking to the driver of an automobile. As Sweeney Orcutt strolled toward the doorway, Overland Red, clean-shaven, clothed in new corduroys and high lace boots, and a sombrero aslant on his stiff red hair, dove into the saloon and called for a "bucket of suds."
"Close—shave—Red—" whispered Orcutt.
"Had me Orcutt, likewise," replied the tramp. "Say, Sweeney, stall off the Dick out there. I think he piped me as I blew in, but I ain't sure. He'll be pokin' in here in a minute. If he sees me talkin',—to the guy there, for instance,—and you give him a steer, he won't look too close. Sabe?" And Overland drank, observing the Easterner at the table over the top of his glass.
"They got that guy Overland Red mugged in every station from here to Chicago," whispered Orcutt. "Paper says he put it over a desert rat up near Barstow. Did you hear about it?"
"Some," replied Overland sententiously.
"And did you hear about his last get-away on one of the Moonstone Rancho ponies? Some class to that!"
"I read somethin' about it," replied Overland.
"Well, Red, if you won't tumble, all I got to say is, beat it. You're worth a thousand bucks to any fly-cop that nips you in this town. I'm handin' you a little dope that you can slide out on and not get stuck."
"Thanks, Sweeney. Well, I'll ring you up from Kalamazoo."
"Kalamazoo? In them clothes?"