Doctor Holliday, on the back seat of the depot wagon, chuckled. Jim did not; he never laughed at his own jokes. And his questioner did not chuckle, either.
“Does a—does a Mr. Snow live here?” he asked.
The answer was prompt, if rather indefinite. “Um-hm,” said the driver. “No less'n fourteen of him lives here. Which one do you want?”
“A Mr. Z. Snow.”
“Mr. Z. Snow, eh? Humph! I don't seem to recollect any Mr. Z. Snow around nowadays. There used to be a Ziba Snow, but he's dead. 'Twan't him you wanted, was it?”
“No. The one I want is—is a Captain Snow. Captain—” he paused before uttering the name which to his critical metropolitan ear had seemed so dreadfully countrified and humiliating; “Captain Zelotes Snow,” he blurted, desperately.
Jim Young laughed aloud. “Good land, Doc!” he cried, turning toward his passenger; “I swan I clean forgot that Cap'n Lote's name begun with a Z. Cap'n Lote Snow? Why, darn sure! I . . . Eh?” He stopped short, evidently struck by a new idea. “Sho!” he drawled, slowly. “Why, I declare I believe you're . . . Yes, of course! I heard they was expectin' you. Doc, you know who 'tis, don't you? Cap'n Lote's grandson; Janie's boy.”
He took the lighted lantern from under the wagon seat and held it up so that its glow shone upon the face of the youth standing by the wheel.
“Hum,” he mused. “Don't seem to favor Janie much, does he, Doc. Kind of got her mouth and chin, though. Remember that sort of good-lookin' set to her mouth she had? And SHE got it from old Cap'n Lo himself. This boy's face must be more like his pa's, I cal'late. Don't you cal'late so, Doc?”
Whether Doctor Holliday cal'lated so or not he did not say. It may be that he thought this cool inspection of and discussion concerning a stranger, even a juvenile stranger, somewhat embarrassing to its object. Or the lantern light may have shown him an ominous pucker between the boy's black brows and a flash of temper in the big black eyes beneath them. At any rate, instead of replying to Mr. Young, he said, kindly: