The little man brightened at the thought of this man asking a favor of him.
Tresler didn’t respond at once. He didn’t want to put the matter too bluntly. He didn’t want to let Joe feel that he regarded him as a subordinate.
“Well, you see, I’m looking for some one of good experience to give me some friendly help. You see, I’ve bought a nice place, and—well, in fact, I’m setting up ranching on my own, and I want you to come and help me with it. That’s all.”
Joe looked out over the market-place, he looked away at the distant hills, his eyes turned on Doc. Osler’s house; he cleared his throat and screwed his face into the most weird shape. His eyes sought the door of the saloon and finally came back to Tresler. He swallowed two or three times, then suddenly thrust out his hand as though he were going to strike his benefactor.
“Shake,” he muttered hoarsely.
And Tresler gripped the proffered hand. “And perhaps you’ll have that flower-garden, Joe,” he said, “without the weeds.”
“Mr. Tresler, sir, shake agin.”
“Never mind the ‘mister’ or the ‘sir,’” said Tresler. “We are old friends. Now, Fyles,” he went on, turning to the officer, who had been looking on as an interested spectator, “have you any news for Miss Marbolt?”
“Yes, the decision’s made. I’ve got the document here in my pocket.”
“Good. But don’t tell it me. Give me an hour’s start of you. I’m going to see the lady myself. And, Joe,” Tresler looked up into the old man’s beaming face. “Will you come with the sheriff when he interviews—er—our client?”