“Stopping up at Schwartzberg, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. My name’s Henry; got a brother over at the station.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bat. “I detect the family resemblance. How is he?”
“Doing tolerable.” There was a slight pause, then the old man disentangled the hand and jostled Scanlon’s arm once more. “Remember a man that asked for you one night at the station—fat kind of a fellow?”
“Yes,” said Bat.
“Saw him last night.”
“That so?” Bat was unmoved, smoking calmly.
“Helped to take him to Doc. Sharpless’s. Found him in the road, not far from Schwartzberg. Was coming along in a waggon with my brother when I seen him. Only for the moon we’d run over him.”
“What was wrong?” asked Scanlon, carelessly.