He wore a blue shirt and his trousers were tucked into the tops of knee boots. On the floor beside him lay a broad-brimmed hat. Hope flickered in his eyes as they rested on the scout—hope, and a wild appeal.
The other two men in the room were the spectacular persons already encountered by Wild Bill in the street of Hackamore—the baron in black and the baron in haciendado regalia.
The barons, the scout saw at a glance, had been indulging rather too freely in liquor. They had exploded their oaths and leaped from their chairs, but they were none too steady on their feet.
“What’re you doing here?” demanded the man in the greaser costume.
“I have just happened in for a little call,” answered the scout.
“Then happen out again. This ain’t my day for callers.”
“You seem to have a few, nevertheless.”
The scout went over towards the barons and calmly took a chair.
“Great tornadoes!” cried the man in black. “Who’s boss here, anyway, Phelps? Have you got the say about things on your own place?”
Phelps felt around himself uncertainly. He might have been groping for a revolver, but, if he was, he failed to get hold of one.