He swung about and reentered the saloon. A buzz of talk up and down the long room promptly died away as again the eyes of many men travelled his way. It struck him that they had all been talking of him; he knew that they must have marked those signs which Joe Woods's fists had left on his face; he stood a moment looking in on them, conscious for the first time of his rapidly swelling right eye, seeking to estimate what these men made of him.
It seemed to him that the one emotion he glimpsed on all hands and in varying degrees, was distrust. Little cause for surprise there: he was a Packard and this was not the Packard side of Red Creek.
"Somebody's put me on foot," he announced crisply. "I left my horse outside, tied. It's gone now. Know anything about it, any of you boys?"
They looked their interest. Hereabouts one man did not trifle with another man's horse. But there was no answer to his direct question.
"I've got to be riding," he went on quietly. "Who can lend me a saddle-horse for the night? I'll pay double what it's worth."
Whitey Wimble gave his bar a long swipe with his wet towel.
"If you're askin' favors, seems to me you're on the wrong side the street, ain't you, stranger?"
"Meaning I am a Packard?"
"You got me the firs' time. That's Packard's Town over yonder. Your crowd——"
"Look at my eye!" then said Steve quickly.