"Who are you?"
"Sh-h-h!" The stranger darted across the room and bolted both doors, while the other felt a chill of apprehension at these sinister precautions. He grasped his revolver firmly while his heart thumped. The fellow's appearance was anything but reassuring: he was swarthy and sun-browned, his clothes were ragged, his overalls were patched; instead of a coat, he wore a loosely flapping vest over a black sateen shirt, long since rusted out to a nondescript brown.
"I've been trying to get to you for a week," announced the mysterious visitor hoarsely.
"W-what do you want? Who are you?"
"I'm Skinner, cook for the Centipede."
"The man I race?"
"Not so loud." Skinner was training for the faintest sound from the direction of the mess-house.
"I'll kill him!" exulted the Eastern lad. But the other forestalled a murder by running on, rapidly:
"Listen, now! Humpy and I jobbed this gang last month; we're pardners, see? He's got another race framed at Pocatello, and I want to make a get-away—"
"Yes! yes! y-you needn't stay here—on my account."