The stranger closed his eyes in token of acquiescence.
“Ur-hum,” he murmured.
“Will you point me out the hotel?”
The other’s eyes had finally settled themselves on the magnificent pair of balloon-shaped corduroy riding-breeches Tresler was wearing, which had now resettled themselves into their natural voluminous folds.
He made no audible reply. He was engrossed with the novel vision before him. A backward jerk of the head was the only sign he permitted himself.
Tresler looked at the house indicated. He felt in some doubt, and not without reason. The place was a mere two-storied shanty, all askew and generally unpromising.
“Can I—that is, does the proprietor take—er—guests?” he asked.
“Guess Carney takes most anythin’,” came the easy reply.
The door of the hotel opened and two men came out, eyeing the newcomer and his horse critically. Then they propped themselves in leisurely fashion against the door-casing, and chewed silently, while they gazed abroad with marked unconcern.