Spurrier nodded. So this was the outlaw against whose terrorism old Cappeze had broken his Quixote lances, the windmill that had unhorsed him; the man with a criminal record at which a wild region trembled.
“I’ve heered tell of Mr. Spurrier, too,” vouchsafed the murderer equably. “He’s a friend of old Dyke Cappeze’s.”
The “furriner” made no denial. Though he had been sitting with his head in the jaws of death ever since he entered this door, it had been without any presentiment of danger. Now he felt the menace of this terrorist’s presence, and that menace was totally fictitious.
“Mr. Cappeze has befriended me,” he answered stiffly. “I reckon that’s not a recommendation to you, is it?”
The man who had newly entered laughed. He drew a chair forward and seated himself.
“I reckon, Mr. Spurrier, hit ain’t none of my business one way ner t’other,” he said. “Anyhow, hit ain’t no reason why you an’ me kain’t be friends, is hit?”
“It doesn’t make any difficulty with me,” laughed Spurrier in relief, “if it doesn’t with you.”
Sam Mosebury looked at him, then his voice came with a dry chuckle of humor.
“Over at my dwellin’ house,” he announced with a pleasant drawl, “I’ve got me a pet mockin’-bird—an’ I’ve got me a pet cat, too. Ther three of us meks up ther fam’ly over thar.”