We rode two days in the country that looks like the men had gone out when they had the construction work on it half done, when a couple of horsemen came out of a draw into the cañon ahead of us.
"The one on the pinto," said I, "is the perspiration specialist."
"If he doesn't recognize you," said Lungy, "let the dead past stay dead!"
Out there in the sunshine the Jackleg looked the part, so I wondered how we come to be faked by him. We could see that the other fellow was a sheriff, a deputy-sheriff, or a candidate for sheriff—it was in his features.
"Howdy, fellows!" said I.
"Howdy!" said the sheriff, and closed his face.
"Odd place to meet!" gushed the Jackleg, as smily as ever. "Which way?"
"We allowed to go right on," I said.
"This is our route," said Jackleg, and moseys up the opposite draw, clucking to his bronk, like an old woman.
"What do you make of his being here?" asked Lungy.